


Good Grief

by QueenDidymus



Category: Bastille (Band), Dan Smith (Bastille) - Fandom, Dan Smith - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Trigger Warning: Vomit, Unrequited Love, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8155153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenDidymus/pseuds/QueenDidymus
Summary: The new year has started on a sour note and now your only constant is your job at a London music magazine. An evening interviewing the lead singer of a popular British band sparks a new friendship and new career possibilities, but can you keep business and pleasure apart?  (Cheesy blurb, WIP)





	1. Sniffles

The inhospitable January air nipped at my exposed skin as I made my way down the narrow back streets of Soho. London had now endured more than two weeks of snow, making it the harshest winter for many years and I was utterly sick of it. Trudging through the thick snow, I pulled my scarf up around my ears in a poor attempt to shield myself from the current flurry. I was in an incredibly bad mood. Christmas and all its fun and festivities were now long over and the New Year had truly begun, bringing with it some unfortunate happenings. 

For one, I was now newly single. My seemingly gentle and kind boyfriend, Mike, had, according to a mutual friend, kissed a female co-worker on New Year’s Eve at their staff do and after a few too many tequila shots, he called me in floods of tears and confessed that the two had them had been sleeping together for several weeks. I now came home every night to an empty flat and was back to cooking microwave meals for one, a prospect that sent shivers down my spine. My best friend and co-worker, Claire, had also decided to up and leave, to start a new life in Australia, leaving me with a broken heart that I would have to mend by myself but also with tonnes of extra work. I’d pretended to be over the moon for her, because that’s what friends do, but I cried for a full hour when she said goodbye, something I surprisingly didn’t do when Mike had come to pick up his treasured Morrissey records and horror movie collection. And to top it all off, I had an absolutely dreadful cold.

I sniffed grumpily as I turned into Dean Street, poorly manoeuvring the large queue of screaming girls that was already forming outside Soho theatre. With Claire now gallivanting around in Oz, I’d had to fill in for her that evening. I loved my job at the magazine, but I’d been out nearly every night that week, interviewing different new bands and I’d really fancied a night in, instead of hauling ass to yet another venue, for a band I wasn’t all that interested in. I was a big rock music fan, so a night interviewing, listening to and then reviewing Bastille, wasn’t exactly my idea of heaven, but blowing my nose and dry swallowing a Panadol, I willed myself to at least try and enjoy the evening.  


Flashing my pass at the door, I was herded down a narrow staircase and practically shoved into the VIP area, kettled in with a whole load of photographers and lucky competition winners. I swam my way to the bar and ordered a coke and managing to procure a stool, I sat patiently and waited, fishing a pen and Claire’s scrappy notebook out of my satchel and trying to look professional, despite my bright red nose and pale face. I flipped through the notebook and pressed my finger gently against the margin of Claire’s first page of notes on Bastille. She was an arse, but she wasn’t the worst friend in the world and had kindly left me her research on the band, whom I knew barely anything about and had also written me a list of great questions to ask them. I use the term ‘great’ rather loosely; they varied a little. The first ten were questions like ‘How was your tour of America?’ and ‘Do you do any kind of special, pre-show warm-up?”, but towards the end she’d written questions such as ‘What’s your favourite breakfast cereal?” and ‘Dan, how do you get your hair so soft?’ I laughed to myself as I scanned through her messy notes; some useful like ‘They have two albums out so far’ and ‘They’ve had two top ten hits’ but then she’d obviously gotten bored and had drawn funny little pictures of the band members, writing things like ‘Dan Smith is a sex god’ in the margin. I sniffed once more, unwelcome tears welling in my eyes as I imagined her, cross-legged on her bed, scribbling research notes in her wobbly script. I sighed softly, she really was the best.

Wiping away the tears with the back of my sleeve, I let my eyes wander over the crowd around me. There were gaggles of young girls, clutching VIP passes tightly to their chests and squealing excitedly at each other and I watched as slowly but surely, each group was ushered into a side room, presumably for a meet and greet with the band. I spotted a couple of familiar looking photographers across the room and my heart sank as my eyes fell upon the one person I didn’t want to see that night; Amelia Baron, a columnist at NME. I averted my gaze as quickly as I could, praying that she hadn’t seen me, but moments later, there was a tap on my shoulder and I turned to see her smug, perfectly contoured face. Amelia and I had been interviewed for the same position at NME years back and she liked very much to remind me that she was the candidate the editors eventually chose, every time I bumped into her at a concert. Shortly after that stinker of an interview, I applied for a job at New Sound and was welcomed with open arms. I loved working for them and was sure I was happier there than I’d have ever been at NME, but they didn’t have great renown and as she cared to tell me on many an occasion, in the public eye, they were no New Music Express.

Amelia hugged me half-heartedly, careful not to crease her perfect, pale pink (probably hugely expensive) linen blazer.  
“Darling, it’s been such a long time,” she cooed, with a false smile, showing her two rows of cosmetically altered teeth. I tried very hard not to cringe, but it was certainly a challenge.  
“Hi Amelia, yes it has been a while,” I replied, as brightly as I could manage.  
“Still at New Sound?”  
“Yes,” I said sharply, knowing what was coming next.  
“Oh, what a shame,” she drawled, tutting “I always thought you were far too good for that rag,” It took all my strength not to roll my eyes at her.  
“Apparently they’re splitting the band members between us tonight,” she continued, sipping her (probably free) champagne “Bastille are on a tight schedule, so after the meet and greets, the band’s press team will be taking us each into a room and giving us one of the boys for half an hour,”  
“Oh, okay,” I smiled, grinding my teeth.  
“Of course, we’ll get Dan, the singer. We are NME, after all,” she went on, her snorting laughter echoing in my ears “Hopefully you’ll get the synth player, Kyle, I’ve heard he’s lovely. Oh wait, I think Mojo, are here? Oh well, I guess you’ll get the drummer, err…Chris, I think his name is? Oh, what a shame,” She feigned a sad expression, but then flicked her blonde curls and smiled sweetly, causing my blood to boil. Amelia Baron was a wind-up merchant who seemingly lived to cause others annoyance and embarrassment and as she stood there in front of me, looking like the cat who got the cream, I just couldn’t stand it. Pulling a tissue out of my bag, I faked a large, grotesque sneeze, snorting and blowing my nose loudly.  
“I’m sorry Amelia,” I said, nasally, as though I had an awfully stuffy nose (not all that untrue) “I’m really unwell. I think I might have the flu,” Amelia’s face was one of alarm as I pulled a very convincing coughing fit, purposefully spluttering in her direction. She pursed her lips, visibly grimacing and excused herself promptly, muttering something about needing to find her photographer. As she made her way quickly back to the NME team, heels clacking on the marble floor, I saw her pull a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her tiny pink handbag.

Laughing to myself, I took a victory swig of my coke, wishing that it had a tot of whiskey in it, but my wicked smile began to fade however, when I thought a little more about what Amelia had said. If she was right and they were splitting up the band for interviews, I was really screwed unless I was lucky enough to get Dan. The other members of the band seemed to keep to themselves and although I didn’t wish to discredit any of them, Dan really was the face of Bastille. No matter how proficient a writer I was, and I considered myself to be pretty damn accomplished, if I had an interview from one of the lesser known members of the band, my magazine wasn’t exactly going to fly off the shelves. Panicking, I downed my drink and began frantically flipping through the notebook, disappointed to find that most of Claire’s research was on Dan. I threw my hands up in despair and of course, just at the wrong time, a lady with a sweeping pink bob approached me and explained it was time for the interviews.


	2. Blushes

I was led from corridor to corridor, up and down stairs, winding and turning until my head began to spin. After what seemed like forever, the girl opened the door to a small, plush furnished dressing room, with a tacky ‘movie star’ mirror and I was told to sit and wait for her to fetch my interviewee. With a smile, she explained that the gig was sponsored by Absolut and that I could help myself to any freebies in the mini-fridge and with that, she disappeared, leaving me alone with just the sounds of the crowd echoing through the walls for company. Nervous butterflies had found a home in my stomach and my hands were shaking as I retrieved my notepad and camera from my bag. Glancing at the mini-fridge, my conscience told me not to even think about drinking; I needed to appear professional and surely it wouldn’t do my cold any good. The rest of my brain however, convinced me that calming my nerves was my main priority right at that moment and so I ignored my conscience and headed for the fridge. 

Inside were a whole variety of pre-made cocktails in what looked like takeaway Starbucks cups. It was a tacky gimmick, but I had to admit, they all looked rather appetizing. I grabbed one that was labelled ‘Mango Mystic’ that glowed an almost luminescent orange colour (maybe that was the mystic), but right at that moment, I couldn’t care less what colour it was. I popped the lid off and took a sip, enjoying the fact that the drink tasted more of fruit than alcohol. In addition to the drinks, there was a spread of canapés on the counter top next to the fridge and my stomach grumbled on cue, reminding me how long it had been since my measly dinner of beans on toast. My free hand hovered over the tray of bite-sized delights and I selected a tiny salmon and cream cheese bagel, hoping despite its size, the stodginess of the cheese and bread would fill me up. I ate it in one bite, disappointed at the distinct lack of stodge and immediately went in for another, stuffing it in my mouth. I ate two more and greedily grabbed a fifth, just as I heard the squeak of the door handle.

I turned, my mouth full to the brim with fish and bagel and to my horror, in walked Dan Smith; as blue eyed and handsome as his posters that covered the walls of Soho theatre, followed by the pink haired staff member.  
“I see you found the hor d’oervres,’ she grinned and my cheeks flushed as pink as the smoked salmon. Chewing and swallowing as quickly as I could, I swilled the mango drink around my mouth, desperate to rid my teeth of any left-over flecks of bagel. I smiled weakly at Dan and he smiled back, standing awkwardly in the doorway, like a teenage boy at a family gathering.  
“I’ll leave you to it,” giggled the pink-haired girl, heading back out of the door “I’ll be back in half an hour, Dan,” she said, gazing up at him for just a few seconds too long, before closing the door behind her. 

And so I was left, utterly alone, with possibly the most attractive man I’d ever seen. He was slender and dressed in a black fitted t-shirt, grey hoodie and jeans; a very casual look for a concert. A shock of dark curly hair crowned his head, contrasting beautifully with the crystal blue of his eyes and it was thoroughly difficult not to stare at him. I was a little bemused as to why he was here and not being fussed over by Amelia Baron in her private (probably less tacky) dressing room, but it didn’t matter, I was in luck and I had to make damn sure I got a good interview for the magazine. Flicking any residual crumbs from my fingers and tucking a stray hair absent-mindedly behind my ear, I offered my hand to the man who towered over me, standing at at least six foot.  


“Hi Dan, I’m (Y/N) from New Sound,” I said, chirpily as he took my hand in a warm handshake. When he smiled, his eyes smiled too and I bit my lip, determined not to lose focus.  
“Hi, nice to meet you,” he replied, “Thank god, you’re not that dreadful woman from NME, she’s been stalking me all evening,” We shared a laugh and he gestured towards the sofas. I couldn’t stop grinning, picturing Amelia’s smug smile disappearing as she was told who would actually be interviewing Dan that evening. Picking up my notepad and grabbing the cocktail off the counter with a new air of confidence, I made myself comfortable on the sofa, opposite my subject.  
“No photographer?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning slightly towards me.  
“No one was available tonight, so you’ve just got me,” I said, pointing at the canon camera that was balancing precariously on the seat next to me.  
“So,” I began, flicking through my notebook and finding the page of Claire’s notes, running my finger down to the first question. “I hear you guys have just finished your tour in America, how was that?” Dan beamed, absent-mindedly flicking his bottom lip with his thumb.  
“It was great, the Yanks are really nice and the fans there are really passionate about our music. Had a few too many Wendy’s’ though,” he chuckled, patting his almost non-existent stomach. “Have you ever been to the States?” 

I had been scribbling down his answer and looked up in surprise when he shot me a question. I was used to interviews wherein the artist spent the entire time gushing about themselves, so having an actual conversation was a rare, albeit welcome occurrence.  
“Oh no, never,” I replied “I’d love to go someday though, when I’ve got the cash,”  
“You ought to, the music scene in New York is great, the beer is off the hook and the pizza is pretty phenomenal,” I gave him a genuine smile; a great lover of pizza and beer myself, it was always nice to meet a kindred spirit.  
“Okay, now, do you have any sort of pre-show warm-up?” I asked. I was relishing the courage the shocking orange cocktail was giving me and I took another large sip, enjoying the slight burn of the vodka at the back of my throat.  
“Erm, not as such,” Dan answered “I mean I do vocal warm ups, but usually it’s just panic for forty five minutes and then get on stage,” He shrugged  
“Oh really? Do you struggle with stage fright?”  
“Massively,” he conceded “I used to almost always throw up from nerves before our shows when we were just starting out, but I got used to it. I love performing and I know that the panic’s just something I just have to deal with to be able to do this for a living,” I nodded sympathetically.  


I admired his guts. As someone who dealt with anxiety on a fairly regular basis myself, I completely understood how it felt to panic and to go through that before every concert must’ve been a real struggle.  
“You really ought to have a scribe with you, you know, it’s very difficult talking to someone who’s constantly looking at a notepad,” he added and I paused, looking up apologetically  
“Sorry, we’ve not got the staff right now, besides, I’m writing the article and I write myself little prompts and notes in the margins to help me later,” I finished scribbling and pointed at a note that said ‘Dan loves beer and pizza!’, turning the page towards him so that he could see. He laughed heartily as he read it; a beautiful deep sound that sent happy tingles through my body and plastered a huge smile on my face. 

Dan was incredibly polite throughout our interview and answered all of my questions. He seemed like quite a reserved person, but nonetheless charismatic and he was more than happy to share personal anecdotes and info for the magazine, which was incredibly helpful. It could only have taken fifteen minutes to get through all of my questions, but I was left with two full pages of really good notes for the article. Dan also posed patiently whilst I took photos of him on the sofa. He was not a difficult person to photograph as he looked annoyingly good from almost every angle and we actually had fun with it, taking a few silly ones at the end, including my personal favourite; a photo of him lying on the sofa and pouting, like a nude model. Taking the camera from my hand, Dan insisted that we also took some photos of the two of us.  


“You might not want to come too close,” I sighed “I’ve got a bad cold,”  
“Don’t worry,” he said, standing next to me and holding the camera above us, selfie style “I’ve just had one, so I think I’ll be immune for a while,” He stuck his tongue out at the camera and I giggled, following suit. We took three or four funny pictures together, making more grotesque and dramatic faces in each and by the end I was in fits of giggles. 

Feeling flushed, I headed to the mini-fridge for another cocktail.  
“Want anything?” I asked, turning to Dan, who was back to relaxing on the sofa.  
“No thanks, I don’t drink before gigs,”  
“Sensible,” I replied, reaching in and grabbing another orange beverage from the top shelf. Popping off the lid and taking a swig of my new favourite tipple, I flopped back down on the sofa, feeling much more at ease than I did at the start of the interview. I reached for Claire’s notebook, wondering if there were any more questions I could squeeze into the last few minutes before the concert, but my hand found the leather of the sofa instead. I looked beside me quizzically and sure enough, the notebook had vanished. I checked under the cheap velour cushions and scanned the floor in front of me in case it had fallen, but it was nowhere to be seen. Bemused, I stood up to rummage around beneath me, in case I’d sat on it, but to no avail. Looking over at Dan, I posed a question about the notebook, but stopped short when I saw that it was safe in his hands. His lips were curled into a Cheshire cat grin as he flipped through the pages and he began to laugh as something caught his eye.  


“Dan Smith is a sex god?” He asked with a cackle. My blood ran cold. Shit!  
“I didn’t write that!” I protested, the panic fully setting and I floundered, remembering all the things that Claire had written.  
“How do I keep my hair so soft? Erm…Herbal essences? I think,” He looked up at me, his ocean blue eyes full of mischief “Why aren’t you getting this down? This is great stuff!”  
“I didn’t write that! Any of it,”  
“It’s okay, honestly, I’m flattered,”  
I covered my increasingly red face with my hands and willed the ground to swallow me up.  
“My friend Claire was supposed to do this interview, but she decided to leave the magazine and emigrate to bloody Australia, so she left me her notes so that I could fill in for her,” I said quickly, the words mingling into one super word.  
“Oh, okay. I have to say I’m a little disappointed,” he said softly, laying the notebook on his lap and stretching his long legs out onto the glass coffee table between us. “That research was so thorough, I thought you must’ve been a big fan,”  
“Yeah, sorry, I’m basically a plagiarist, I know,” I sighed, feeling a little disappointed too.  
“Are you a fan?” he asked and I bit my lip.  
“Not…as such?”  
“Have you ever even heard our music?” He was pressing me now, his blue eyes wide and piercing. I ground my teeth together, feeling very unprofessional.  
“Not really, I mean I’ve heard you on the radio and stuff, but honestly I couldn’t name one of your songs,”  
“Wow,”  
“I’m sorry,”  
“You’re here interviewing me for your music magazine and you haven’t even heard us play?”  
“I know, I’m the worst!” I cried, shaking my head and burying my face in my hands once more.  
“Well,” he said, standing up and walking over to me, poking me gently in the side “I’ll expect an honest review after the gig tonight, you owe me!”  
“I will, I promise I’ll write a great article and make you even more famous,”  
“No,” he replied softly “Not for the article, I know you’ll give us a good review, I mean it’d be really great to talk to you about what you actually think of us” I looked at him quizzically.  
“Well,” he continued “I’ve been interviewed a whole bunch of times by superfans, who gush about our music, but it’s really rare to meet someone who barely knows us,” He ran a hand through his messy hair and I nearly swooned. 

Just at that moment, the pink haired girl popped her head around the door and told Dan he was needed backstage.  
“Coming Sarah,” he said, flashing her a smile. Turning back, he picked up the notebook from the sofa and passed it back to me.  
“There’s an after show happening in the VIP bar,” he explained “I know you’re not very well, but it’d be really cool if you could meet me there. It’d be nice to have someone to have a beer with after performing and I’d be really interested to hear what you made of the show,” I smiled, chuffed to even be asked to attend an aftershow, but the nervous butterflies had returned to my stomach. I clutched the notebook to my chest and thought out loud.  
“Well I kind of wanted to get home and rest, but I guess I do owe you,” I grinned at him.  
“Yes you do,”  
“I’ll be there,”  
“Great, I’ll see you then,” he smiled warmly and waved as he slipped out into the corridor.  
“Break a leg!” I called after him. Flipping back to Claire’s page of notes, I looked once more upon the comment that had drawn that deep, velvety laugh from Dan's body and my cheeks flushed a comfortable, warm pink. My cold aside, it was turning out to be a pretty great evening after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have been to Soho theatre, but it's nothing like this on the inside, just thought it'd be a nice setting for this story :P Hope you're all enjoying it so far.


	3. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, short chapter, but needed to get the actual performance done before any more exciting stuff happens. More to come very soon!

I had been told that the concert was going to be intimate, but I had no idea how small Soho theatre actually was. After the interview I was led back through the narrow corridors and into the auditorium, which was full to the brim with fans. They were predominantly female and under the age of twenty, but there was also a handful of families and groups of middle-aged people too. I was pushed through the crowd to the VIP section down by the stage, where cabaret style tables and chairs had been set up for the press and I was pleased to find a free seat next to Hamish Jones, a friendly young photographer whom I always seemed to bump into at concerts. He greeted me with a warm smile and I sat next to him, looking back at the fans, squashed together like cattle in the tiny theatre.  


“Why are Bastille playing here? From what I’ve heard, they could fill a venue ten times this size” I asked Hamish, clocking the tray of Absolut cocktails that had been fortuitously placed in the middle of our table. Reaching for another Mango Mystic, which I decided would be my last, I then removed my thick winter coat; the humidity of the packed room already affecting me greatly.  
“They’re doing a warm-up for their tour and promoting their new album, so everyone here is a competition winner,” Said Hamish, sipping on a shockingly purple cocktail of his own “Besides, they often perform at places like Wembley and the 02 Arena, but really only when their manager insists they do; apparently they much prefer smaller gigs,” He shrugged, fiddling with his camera lens. Settling in to the comfy leather of the chair, I inspected the group around me. I recognised Harriet Dean and Gregory Newman from the Guardian, the two of them sat at a table at the foot of the stage, quaffing champagne, and dressed to the nines as though they were at the royal opera house. To their left was a whole group of women from ‘Shout’, the teen gossip magazine, most of whom looked fresh out of university and visibly uncomfortable in their too tight bodycon dresses and wobbly wedges. Craning my neck to examine the next table along, I was met by the steely gaze of Amelia Baron. She’d lost her usual air of grace and perfect smile and instead looked very angry indeed, her eyes piercing mine and cheeks a bright, furious red. I looked away quickly, pretending I hadn’t seen her but even so, I felt her eyes burning into me.  
“Amelia’s pissed at you,” warned Hamish  
“I know,”  
“She thinks you bribed Bastille’s press team to get Dan for the interview” I looked at him incredulously.  
“You’re not serious?”  
“I know, she’s crazy"  
“I’m from practically the smallest independent magazine in London, where does she think I’d even get the money from?” I cried, probably a little too angrily, as Hamish threw his hands up in defence.  
“Woah, woah, easy, don’t shoot the messenger,” he squeaked “Just warning you,” I nodded in understanding but sipped my drink to hide my anger. I was utterly fuming; annoyed that another enjoyable night was slowly being destroyed by Amelia fucking Baron. All the pleasure I’d derived from getting my own back on her had disappeared and in a single moment I’d lost all the confidence and excitement that I’d gained from my fruitful interview with Dan. I didn’t give a hoot what she thought of me, and I couldn’t care less what rumours she had made up about me this time, but I was terrified of the impact she could have on my career. Amelia worked at one of the biggest music magazines in the country and her opinion had a lot of sway; if I got on her bad side, she could put me through professional hell. If she told the right person that I was a bad egg, it could affect any future career opportunities for me in music journalism. I ground my teeth together and swore under my breath, not as quietly as I’d intended however, as I received a reassuring pat on the shoulder and a sympathetic smile from Hamish. 

It was coming on half eight and the eager crowd was getting restless. As for me, I’d finally decided that I’d had enough to drink. Whether it was the sickly sweet orange liquid or Amelia Baron that had turned my stomach, I wasn’t sure, but either way, I pushed the unfinished cocktail away from me and rested my elbows on the table. Sighing, I checked my watch once more, tapping my fingernails on the glass impatiently. I turned to Hamish to make some comment about time-keeping, when the lights finally began to dim. On cue, the crowd behind me roared and I reached into my satchel to grab my notepad and pen, ready to make notes on Bastille’s performance for the article, but more importantly, to honour my agreement with Dan. 

Screams filled my ears as the band appeared on the modest stage in front of me, all four members dressed in white boiler suits; a very 80s look for a very modern band. The screams intensified as Dan approached the mic.  
“Good evening Soho, you alright?” He shouted, beaming at the two hundred-strong fans that had waited over an hour to see him perform. The congregation heartily whooped back at him and he laughed, his eyes twinkling with excitement. “Thank you for coming tonight, I’m Dan Smith, we are Bastille and this is our new album, Wild World. Give it up!” The room erupted in applause as the band dove head first into their opening track. The large screen behind them lit up, the band themselves ignited and wide eyed, I dropped my pen on the table. They had my full attention.

Dan stood, his back to the audience as the deep, harsh bass kicked in. With his arms outstretched and illuminated by the bright blue stage lights, he looked like a magnificent white bird. Turning to the audience, he grabbed the mic from the stand and looked over the crowd, letting the first lines flow with ease from his lips.  
_‘Watching though my fingers’_ he sang, softly, the other members providing backing vocals and creating a simple but irresistible harmony. His voice was sweet and breathy at first, and I watched intently as he made his way effortlessly through the first verse and then jumped full force into the chorus, dancing wildly as his dulcet tones echoed out across the auditorium.  
_“Every minute of every hour, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you more,”_ He sang, his voice now strong and powerful, sending reverberations through my body. Dan moved fluidly, his long arms waving gracefully through the air. I’d never before witnessed such a display. He jumped around the stage energetically and yet his voice remained perfectly even, hitting every note with ease. I was envious of his talent, and the noise that he and his band mates emanated as a collective had me enraptured. 

Bastille reeled off song after song from their new album and to my great surprise, I loved every single track. The album was accomplished and soulful; a harsh and critical, but also insightful and wondrous look at the world as it was in 2016 and I took a moment after their sixth song to practically gush about them on a clean page of my notepad. Dan had been such an interesting and charismatic musician to interview, so I ought to have known that would come through on stage, but I was not expecting him to be quite the showman he turned out to be.

Their seventh number, that Dan introduced as ‘Two Evils’, was entirely different to the rest of the upbeat synth-pop tracks on the album and I watched in awe as Dan performed it alone, lit by a single, pale spotlight. It was a slow, sad, acoustic number and the audience watched in silence as his fingers expertly traversed the keys of his Yamaha. I bit my lip as he began to sing, his range impressive as he made his way up the musical alphabet; velvet voice soft and sweet as he sang the hauntingly sad lyrics. Every now and then he’d look up from the keyboard and my heart raced when his eyes flickered my way, my cheeks undoubtedly flushing a bright pink once more.  
_“You and I, you and I, we’re not that different, you and I,”_ Dan sung the last line an octave lower, in an irresistible growl and I felt my stomach tighten as he hit the final note, crowd erupting in applause once more.  
“Close your mouth, (Y/N),” Hamish shouted in my ear, breaking me from my daze “You’re drooling,”


	4. Spills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **TW: Some blood in this chapter**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Another short one, but I've decided that I'd rather get short chapters out and work on it bit by bit. Some longer chapters on their way, however, now the story has got going. Enjoy!

Getting into the VIP bar was easier said than done this time. Apparently everyone had got the memo about the after show party and the cramped bar was overflowing with hobnobbing press as Hamish and I entered. He headed straight for the bar, but I hung back, feeling a little hot and dizzy after being sat in the humid auditorium for a couple of hours. I felt my forehead and it was alarmingly warm, but I was determined to stay and talk to Dan; I wasn’t going to let anything else ruin this night for me, not even my ill health. 

I blew my nose as discreetly as possible and reached into my satchel for a lemon Strepsil. I sucked on it as I scanned the room, seeking out those piercing blue eyes. Instead I spotted Amelia god damn Baron, who appeared to be attacking Sarah, the pink-haired staff member from earlier that evening. She was surrounded by Amelia’s NME cronies and looked on the verge of tears as Amelia waved her arms wildly, obviously giving the poor girl a hard time. 

Sighing, I rolled up my sleeves and began to wade through the busy space, to where they were standing. The last thing I wanted that evening was any more drama, but I couldn’t stand injustice, especially at the hands of my rival. As I approached, Amelia’s shrill voice met my unwilling ears.  
“It was very simple, all you had to do was walk Dan Smith into my room; it didn’t even matter where the other members went. They could have been sent to a broom cupboard for all I cared!” She was saying, arms folded in disappointment.  
“I’m sorry Amelia, I tried, but Dan refused to be interviewed by NME. What could I do?” Sarah said coyly, looking at her feet, obviously determined not to let Amelia see her cry.  
“What do you mean, he refused to be interviewed by NME?” She shouted, incredulously.  
“Well not NME, just…you,” Sarah whimpered and then winced, as though she was expecting a blow to the face. 

I decided that it would be the ideal time to cut in and save Sarah from Amelia’s wrath and I strolled confidently up behind her, ready for a confrontation. Amelia flared her nostrils like a bull and lifting her tripod bag over her shoulder angrily, she made to leave. Unfortunately for me, as she turned to make her way to the exit, she swung the heavy bag and it hit me full in the face. I lost my footing and stumbled to the ground as my hands flew up, cupping my nose; the pain resonating down to my jaw and neck. The room around me was a blur and I blinked rapidly, trying to focus, seeing a ring of bodies form around me, but unable to make out their faces. I shut my eyes tightly once more as the world began to spin and when I opened them again, they were met by Dan’s sparkling blue irises. 

“Dan,” I breathed, helplessly, unable to string together any kind of sentence.  
“Hello space cadet, can you see me?” He asked softly, bringing an arm around my back and helping me to sit up. I nodded, to the best of my ability and he smiled weakly. My hands were still cupping my nose and I felt something liquid drip down into my palm. My vision normalising, I turned a hand carefully towards me and to my dismay, it was covered in blood.  
“Can I get some tissues over here?” shouted Dan, looking over his shoulder at the growing crowd. 

Within seconds, he was handed a kitchen roll and clumsily ripped a handful of sheets from it, carefully moving my hands aside and holding the tissues against my nose. I winced at the pain and held my hands out to my sides, desperately trying to stop the blood from dripping on my clothes. I couldn’t look at Dan, embarrassed and seriously dazed after the whole exchange, but he dutifully dabbed at my nose over so gently, careful not to cause any further discomfort. He instructed me to lift my chin as to stop the blood dripping and examined my nose tenderly, running his thumb and forefinger over the bridge, then reached for more kitchen roll. Taking each of my hands in his, he wiped away the blood and when he was satisfied, placed a final piece of tissue in my hand and told me to keep it against my nose with my head slightly tilted, until the bleeding stopped.  
“Well it’s not broken, thank goodness, but you certainly had a spill didn’t you,” he said finally. I nodded sheepishly.

“Come on, let’s get you up. I’ve got a booth next door, we’ll sit you in there,” Without giving me a chance to reply, he lifted me to my feet, and with an arm around my shoulders he began to walk me back through the crowd. The congregation parted for us, and I kept my attention on the floor, doing my best to ignore the sea of eyes that were now directed at me. I hated being the centre of attention and now thanks to Amelia, the entire room was staring at me and probably starting even more rumours, undoubtedly involving Dan this time. 

We passed the bar and he led me into a low-lit back room. It was much cooler and less populated and as he sat me down on a soft leather sofa, I immediately started to feel less woozy. Dan left me there for a moment, mumbling something about getting ice and I turned my attention to the familiar faces in the room. Sat opposite me were two men, one very slim with a large dark beard and the other with broad shoulders and longish brown hair, who I recognised as the synth player and drummer for Bastille. They looked at me worriedly and I smiled weakly, shrugging my shoulders in a sort of ‘I’m okay’ gesture. Standing behind them was another man with fairer hair and he was surrounded by a group of women, all of whom were batting their eyelids at him and laughing at practically every word he said. He was the bassist, but I also decided that he must be Will as the women at work had not stopped gushing about what a ladies man he was, the day before. 

Dan returned with an armful of goodies and a big goofy grin on his face. He flopped down next to me on the sofa and placed each item on the small table in front of us, for my perusal. There was an ice pack for my nose, a pouch of wet-wipes for any remaining blood, a Capri-sun, a bottle of water and a bottle of my favourite Brew Dog beer as well as a large box of tissues.  
“I didn’t know what you’d like to drink, so I bought a selection,” he beamed, taking a swig of his own beer “Though I suggest you probably have a soft drink first, if you’re feeling a bit woozy,” I laughed, reaching for the ice-pack and holding it against my nose. It stung, but the cold was welcome and I settled back into the soft leather to consider my beverage options. I desperately wanted the Capri-sun, but I was worried Dan would think it too childish. I bit my lip; a habit I’d seemed to have picked up that evening and thought ‘fuck it’, Dan had already seen me at my worst, so c’est la vie. I picked up the Capri-sun and set it on my lap, taking the ice pack off my nose for a moment to fiddle with the straw.  
“A wise choice,” he chuckled. I had a hard time opening it with my shaky hands and so Dan took it from me, pierced the straw into the pouch with ease and handed it back.  
“Thanks,” I said and took a sip, feeling like a small child. I’d intended to put the ice back on my nose, but holding a Capri-sun in one slippery hand, is easier said than done. Dan giggled at my struggle and kindly held the pack against my sore nose as I drank. Holding his arm above me, I could see spots of dried blood on his grey hoodie.  
“I’m sorry, I ruined your hoodie,” I whined, feeling guilty.  
“It’s okay,” he smiled “Clothes can be washed and replaced, but noses? Well they’re kind of a big deal,” I giggled; that warm, happy feeling making itself at home in my stomach once more.


	5. Giggles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not entirely happy with this chapter, so might edit it later, but I was eager to update, so here you go.!

“Right, my turn,” I grinned, taking a swig of my beer “Dogs or cats?”  
“Dogs,” replied Dan, without hesitation, taking another gulp from his own bottle. He had done his very best to distract me from the pain of my nose and after introducing me to his friendly and incredibly welcoming band mates, he and I sat and played a game of ‘either or’, enjoying chatting under more casual circumstances. Now, it was his turn to ask.

“Okay, erm…period dramas or horror movies?” I cringed, knowing my answer was lame and that he’d probably laugh at me for being an old fogey, but then I couldn’t lie to him; not with those beautiful, innocent eyes of his, watching me.  
“Period dramas,” I admitted, through gritted teeth and he chuckled, drawing a groan from me.  
“Really?”  
“Yes, really! I know, boring, right?”  
“No, not at all,” he said, halting his laughter and giving me a reassuring smile “Just pegged you for more of a horror movie kind of girl, I guess,”  
“I take it you’re a horror movie kind of guy then?” I asked, finishing the last drops of my beer and placing the empty bottle on the table.  
“Oh yeah,” he smiled, “Very much so. In fact I probably like them a little too much,” he giggled nervously and I shot him a quizzical look. Sighing, he tried his best to explain.

“When I was about fourteen, I used to watch all sorts of horrible, gory, age-inappropriate horror movies around a friend’s house; his dad had a load of tapes. Something about them really piqued my interest; I thought they were…brilliant and by the time I was 16 I’d seen every Wes Craven film and was obsessed with the Friday the 13th franchise. When I started making music, my parents seemed relieved, probably concerned my weird hobby would turn me into some kind of serial killer,”

I fell about laughing at the idea of little Dan sitting alone in his room, watching Scream. The thought of him clapping his hands with glee as the masked killer stabbed yet another victim was just too creepy and strangely adorable for me to handle. He couldn’t keep a straight face either and his irresistible laughter filled my ears once more; that gorgeous, deep and yet breathy sound plastering the biggest smile on my face.

“Go on then, as we’re talking movies, have you got a favourite?” I asked, wiping a happy tear from my eye. He pondered the question for a moment, biting his bottom lip in thought.  
“Probably the Elephant Man,” he said proudly “I have a bit of a thing for David Lynch. Oh, or the Exorcist!” 

At that moment, Woody appeared the table, placing two fresh bottles of Dead Pony Club in front of us. He grinned and gave me a slightly condescending pat on the head.  
“For the girl with the sore nose; something to numb the pain,” he said, with a wink, before making his way back across the room, to join the other members of the band in a game of beer pong. I was feeling drained and a little lightheaded, but I was sure one more beer couldn’t hurt. I wrapped my fingers around the chilled glass, but Dan stopped me, holding onto the base of the bottle.  
“You needn’t drink it, if you don’t want to,” he said gently “You’ve lost quite a lot of blood, it’s probably not the best idea to get drunk tonight,” 

I gave a short laugh; unsure whether he was acting like a big brother, or a caring boyfriend. Either way, I was incredibly grateful to him. After my messy breakup with Mike and with my best friend on the other side of the world, it was really nice to have someone looking out for me. His eyes were piercing and full of genuine concern and I let go of the bottle, knowing it was probably for the best.

“Y/N?” I turned sharply and came face to face with a seemingly distressed Amelia Baron. She had her hands clasped together and had ever such a forlorn look on her face. I couldn’t be sure if she was being sincere or if this was just another act and it made me feel quite uncomfortable.  
“I’m so sorry about before, I do hope your nose isn’t broken,” she said, her voice sickly sweet and she batted her eyelashes innocently at Dan and I. I groaned. I had really hoped that I’d seen the last of her that night; I didn’t fancy getting into an argument with her, but it seemed to be headed that way. Luckily, Dan spoke for me.

“You knock her to the ground, her damn nose bleeds and you wait all this time to come and apologise?” He hissed, causing Amelia’s eyes to fill with what seemed to be actual genuine concern.  
“It was an accident!” She protested, looking around for support. She received none and instead, Dan’s bandmates crowded around behind her, locking her in. Amelia panicked, trying to turn on her famous charm, but instead floundered and looked rather desperate.

“She’s right,” I conceded “It was an accident. She turned to leave, I was stood behind her and she knocked me with her tripod bag” I hated Amelia Baron, but I wasn’t a liar. Dan put his hand over mine reassuringly, but kept his eyes focussed on Amelia.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble this evening. You have harassed staff, insulted my band and made everyone feel very uncomfortable. If you don’t leave now, I will have you escorted from the premises. I will also be in touch with your editor at NME; I’m sure he’ll be very interested to hear about your behaviour at this event,” Dan’s voice had a sharp edge to it and it sliced right through Amelia. I had never seen her look remotely scared in my life, but in the wake of Dan Smith she shook with fright and throwing her tiny handbag over her shoulder, she scurried away as fast as her silly pink heels could carry her. We watched her go and Dan took a victory sip of his beer.

“She won’t be bothering you anymore,” he smiled and I looked up at him in surprise. He had seemed a very gentle, reserved man and I hadn’t expected him to assert his dominance quite as he had. It was rather impressive, but my stomach didn’t feel right at all.

“Dan, please don’t tell her editor. She’s a nasty person, but I don’t want her to lose her job,” I pleaded, a little confused as to why I was helping my rival. Dan looked at me, knowingly.  
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to. Just wanted to give her a little scare,” He nudged me playfully and I shared his smile, gazing up at him.

“Thank you, Dan. For everything,” I gushed “I don’t know how I can repay you,”  
“Yes you do,” he replied, edging nearer. My breath hitched as he leaned ever so slightly towards me, his parted lips only a rulers’ length away from mine. My mind raced with all the different things he could possibly say and I hoped for my heart’s sake that he wouldn’t get come any closer, despite the fact my own lips were screaming for contact.  
“You owe me a review, remember!” he said excitedly, breaking me from my daze. I flushed with relief and hoped he hadn’t heard me gulp.  
“Oh, I almost forgot!” I cried, trying to emulate his eagerness. My mind was metaphorically face-palming itself and I prayed to god he wouldn’t be able to tell. He waited patiently as I collected my thoughts, his eyes full of anticipation. Finding a way to tell Dan how much I enjoyed the concert without gushing seemed almost impossible, but I gave it a go, trying not to make it sound too much like a formal review either.  
“I was really, really impressed,” I began “I’ve been to four gigs already this week but none have them have been so atmospheric. Your writing is pretty incredible, Dan,” His face lit up like a child given an early Christmas present.  
“You really think so?”  
“I do! Not that you need me to tell you that; you sell out entire stadiums and traverse the globe to play fans your music,” I encouraged. He shrugged, but that warm, almost smug grin did not leave his lips. Dan Smith seemed a very self-conscious person and I now understood his request for a personal review of his music; he needed validation. Despite the fact that Bastille had topped the UK charts and had millions of fans, he still didn’t quite believe that he was good enough. That fact saddened me, greatly. 

We sat in silence for a few moments, not uncomfortably and watched as his band mates finished their incredibly messy game of beer pong; all three of them barely able to walk. Yawning, I checked my watch and winced when the hands rudely told me it was two thirty AM.  
“Sleepy?” asked Dan. I nodded in response, my entire body suddenly feeling heavy and weak. The events of the evening and the sleepless nights of the last week had finally begun to affect me and I was struggling to keep my eyes open.  
“Come on then, Rudolf,” he teased, in reference to my nose which was now bright red, both from my cold and my run in with Amelia’s tripod bag “Let’s get you a cab,”  
I shook my head.  
“No it’s fine, I’ll get the night tube,” I said, pulling my thick winter coat back on.  
“No, you won’t” insisted Dan “I’m getting you a taxi,” 

If I’d learnt anything that evening, it was that Dan Smith always got his own way. It was almost impossible to say no to those blue eyes and I allowed him to take me by the hand and pull me out of the room, waving at Woody, Kyle and Will as we went. He led me down several narrow corridors until we came to a heavy back door that opened out into a back alley. The freezing cold air was welcome after being sat in the hot venue all night and we stood by the bins whilst Dan called me a taxi; not the most glamorous of settings.  
“Sorry,” he said, reading my thoughts “There’ll be fans at the stage door and out the front of the theatre,” 

I hadn’t considered that at all. I wondered what it must have been like to be hounded by Bastille lovers at any given moment. Dan excused himself for a moment, walking further away from the venue, in an attempt to get a better phone signal and I stared at the back of his perfectly coiffured head, in thought. I’d interviewed hundreds of bands and never for a moment considered how they lived their lives outside of their music and as I stood there, I thought about Dan. 

He couldn’t have had a girlfriend, not with the level of attention he was giving me, at least I assumed not. And friends? Did he have many outside of the band? Did he have time to maintain relationships? If he did, how would he go on dates or trips out without having to stop every two minutes to sign an autograph? I wanted to ask him all of these questions, but I knew now wasn’t the time. In actual fact, I wasn’t even sure if I’d ever see him again after tonight. _That’s right_ , I thought. Dan had been a complete gentlemen and had looked after me that evening like I was a close friend, but this was just a chance meeting. Tomorrow we would go back to our separate lives and perhaps never even think of each other again. The idea pained my stomach and I attempted to shake it from my mind. 

Within minutes, my taxi arrived and Dan helped me load my equipment into the back. Buckling my seatbelt, I tried not to look at him, feeling a real pang of sadness that I couldn’t quite explain, but as I reached to close the door, I felt his hand on my arm.  
“Hey, I had a really good time tonight. I’m really sorry about your nose though,” he was still holding on to the fabric of my coat and the warmth of his hand seeped through onto my skin, the hairs on my arms standing to attention.  
“It’s okay, no real harm done,” I chirped, with a shrug, finally chancing one last look at his face. “I had fun too,” I added, blushing as his I took in the sapphire blue of his eyes one last time. He beamed and extended a hand to me. Slightly puzzled, I put my hand in his, squeezing his palm in a friendly handshake and he spluttered with laughter.  
“I was going to ask for your phone, you wally,” he howled, my red cheeks turning positively crimson as I released his hand immediately. Embarrassed at reading signals wrongly yet again, I reached into my pocket and unlocked my phone, passing it to him obediently. He punched in a number before handing it back; my phone screen displaying a new contact; Dan Smith.  
“Please text me when you get home safely,” he urged, closing the taxi door and waving through the window. I waved back and with that, the taxi sped off, the condensation fogging up the window until Dan had entirely disappeared from view. 

I sighed. Now that I was finally alone, the night seemed a complete blur, but there in my hands was my phone and the number of Dan Smith, the famous lead singer of Bastille lit up the screen, confirming that I had not in fact, been dreaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Dead Pony Club is a real beer and one of my favourites. Check out Brew Dog online, they're a really cool company. They have pubs all around the UK now :)


	6. Revelations

I awoke the next morning to several unfortunate complications. The first was a terrible, sharp pain that resonated from the very top of my skull, all the way down to my eye sockets and as I sat up in bed, I winced, cursing myself for mixing alcohol with cold medicine and cursing Absolut too, for making such tasty cocktails. I would never drink another Mango Mystic as long as I lived. 

The second was a dull, throbbing ache in the bridge of my nose. I gently prodded the delicate cartilage and was met with a horrible sting and tickle which caused me to sneeze and led to an even more intense pain. I tutted at myself, today was not going to be easy.

The third and most consequential of the three became apparent when I unlocked my phone. I had twenty unread text messages. I wasn’t known to text often, choosing to talk face to face or by phone over messaging, so for me, receiving two or three texts a day was rare. Twenty could only mean one thing; big trouble.

I sighed, placing my phone back onto the nightstand and stumbled blindly to the bathroom in search of paracetamol. To my relief, I had an ample supply in the cabinet and took two tablets, sipping cold water straight from the faucet to swill them down my very dry throat. Fumbling for the hall light, I made my way to my tiny kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle before pulling up the blinds in an attempt to wake myself up. 

The morning light hurt my eyes, but I forced myself to brace it and peered out of the frosted window at the still thick and sparkling white snow that covered the street. There were already onesie-clad children, presumably off from school, making snowmen in their driveways and I smiled and waved at the postman as he trudged with difficulty up the stairs to my block of flats, holding onto the iron railings for dear life. The kettle whistled and I switched on the radio whilst I busied myself with the daunting task of breakfast; deciding that toast would probably be best for a queasy stomach. Popping my ‘best of both’ Hovis into the toaster, I made tea and poured a glass of juice which I then sipped slowly, leaning on the counter top to listen to the travel news. 

The forecast called for yet more snow which meant, once again, there were no trains running. This would once more result in a miserable thirty minute walk into work for me that afternoon, from the South Bank to Bank station; all the way on the other side of the river. Luckily I had the morning to write a draft of my article, which I could do from my ‘home office’ (my bed) but still I groaned, fed up with all this extra effort for the damn snow.

Buttering my toast, I turned the dial on the radio to 105.8 and smiled as I heard the familiar cackle of Christian O’Connell, playing some silly quiz about 90s children’s television with a listener. They were identifying title music and I hummed along to the X-men theme as I spread my jam, grabbing a yoghurt from the fridge and then placing my assembled breakfast on a tray to take back to bed with me. The quiz came to a close as the listener won a Wickes voucher for correctly identifying the ‘Pingu’ theme tune (easy really) and then the ‘no repeat guarantee’ continued as I loaded up the dishwasher with used cutlery. Reaching for the tray, I heard a very familiar bassline and I stopped and listened for a moment as an even more familiar voice began to sing.  
_“Watching through my fingers,”_  
I gave a short laugh. Bastille; Good Grief. Dan Smith’s wonderful voice haunting me in my own damn kitchen. 

I thought back to the night before and the wonderful, strange…painful time I’d had and felt that same pang of sadness return to my stomach. Interviewing bands was my favourite part of the job, but my time with each group or solo artist was so fleeting, that I never had time to form any real connection with any of them, let alone a friendship. With Dan, however, things had been entirely different. It hadn’t been like an interview at all really, more like a, dare I say it…date? Or at the very least, a night out with a good friend. We’d really hit it off; we had great chemistry, but now the night was over. I’d write my article and maybe he’d read it, maybe he wouldn’t, but that’s all we were. Not friends at all, really, just…business. 

I was angry at myself for letting my guard down with a client; I’d behaved unprofessionally and allowed my personal feelings to get in the way of my work. I was sure I’d never be able to listen to Bastille again without feeling disappointed and I reached to turn off the radio, but just couldn’t bring myself to. Instead, I let Dan sing his heart out and made my way back to my bedroom, almost entirely devoid of an appetite. 

I managed to eat my breakfast, though not without difficulty and after forcing down two slices of toast and a yoghurt, I felt even queasier than I had before. Sipping my strong earl grey in an attempt to settle my stomach, I finally took a look at my abundance of text messages. 

First of all, there were four from Claire. She had had so much to tell me about her new place in Melbourne, that she’d had to split her huge paragraph into many smaller paragraphs, evidently running out of characters in each message. I jealously read about her large apartment and outdoor swimming pool, but I couldn’t help but giggle when she told me how burnt she already was. 

There were then four more texts from my mum, two of which were blank and the other two were duplicates of the same message, explaining to me in bad text speak that she’d bought a new phone and didn’t really know how to use it. Obviously. Though she couldn’t use the last one, so I was unsure why she thought getting the latest model was a good idea.

I had begun to relax, realising that there wasn’t as much drama as I had expected, but my stomach muscles tightened once more when I found eight messages from Hamish. _Oh boy._

“Girl, where are you? X” he’d sent at 00:34, presumably when he’d gone off to the bar. Following were a string of texts that he’d obviously sent throughout the evening. I’d collapsed in bed as soon as I’d got home and forgotten to check my phone and I now felt incredibly guilty.

“OH MY GOD, I SAW YOU ON THE FLOOR BLEEDING AND THEN BASTILLE DAN TOOK YOU AWAY WHAT IS GOING ON? X” at 00:45

“Where are you, plz text me to say you’re okay x” at 01:03

“GIRL, CHECK YOUR TEXTS! x” at 01:15

“Waiting for you with shots in the VIP bar, let’s get CRUNK x” at 01:47

“IS DAN SMITH TAKING YOU HOME? WHAAAAT? CALL MEEEEE!!1 x,” at 02:33

“YOU DID NOT SLEEP WITH HIM, PLZ TELL ME YOU HAVEN’T x” at 03;31

And then finally “Call me weirdo, what happened last night? x” at 06:46

I cringed. When leaving the theatre with Dan, I hadn’t even considered that people might have noticed us escaping together, and the implications of doing so. I really hoped it wasn’t a widely spread rumour, worried about effect it could have on Dan. Grimacing, I shook my head. What a mess! I really needed to call Hamish to clear things up, but I decided to empty my inbox first. Scrolling down to read the last four texts, my mouth went dry when I opened the first.

“I’m assuming you got home okay,”- from Dan Smith at 03:26 

_Shit!_ I was meant to text Dan when I got home. I’d been so exhausted, that I’d entirely forgotten my promise to him. Worriedly, I opened the next message.

“Little concerned about you, what with your nose and all. Text me,”- from Dan Smith at 04:00

And the next

“Still out and its 4:30 am, Woody and Kyle are running around a park, half naked. I’d send you a picture, but it’s too dark. Please tell me you’re okay,” at 04:32

And finally

“Realised you’ve probably just fallen asleep. Sorry to get all ‘obsessive boyfriend’ on you. Hope you’re having sweet dreams,”

I held the phone to my chest, stomach full of butterflies. Dan Smith, the gorgeous and seemingly unobtainable lead singer of Bastille had stayed up until half four in the morning, texting me to make sure I was okay. I smiled to myself, but inside my heart was hurting; I really didn’t want this to be the last contact we’d ever have. 

I bit my lip. I liked Dan. He was fun, goofy, sweet and overwhelming kind. He was undeniably an incredibly cool person and I wanted to be a part of his crazy life, in whatever capacity that may be. Sure, I fancied him (who wouldn’t?) but more than anything, I longed for his friendship. I wished to sit on my bed with him, our backs against the wall and legs hanging over the edge like teenagers, listening to all my favourite music and impressing him with my eclectic taste. I wanted to learn how to make his favourite meal and cook it for him after a long, exhausting tour. I wanted to sit cross-legged on the sofa and play old video games with him and blame the terrible bit-rate for his constant falling off of the map. I wanted him to call me after a gig and gush about how amazing the audience were and tell me about his terribly executed stage dives. I wanted to patch _him_ up when _he_ had a bloody nose, most likely from said poorly executed stage dives.

I sighed, rather too dramatically and began typing a message to Dan. There were so many things I wanted to say, but I just couldn’t bring myself to, so I just stuck with a light, cheery message.

“Hey Dan, sorry I didn’t text back last night. You hit the nail on the head in that last text, I fell asleep as soon as I got in. Thank you so much for everything. Look out for my article in New Sound next week!” 

I left out any kisses, not knowing the ruling on the appropriate amount of kisses in a text and sent it, getting out my laptop and starting to write up my notes from the previous night, pretending I wasn’t waiting for a reply. 

I tried to concentrate on my work, but I kept absent-mindedly glancing at my phone. I shouldn’t have expected Dan to respond immediately, not with his busy schedule, but as someone who didn’t text often, I struggled to be patient. I stared blankly at my computer screen, hoping and praying for inspiration. The article wouldn’t write itself, but I just couldn’t get Dan out of my mind. Tapping my fingers against the hollow outer shell of my HP, I gave in and reached for my phone, dialling Hamish.

“Girl,”  
“I know, I’m sorry,”  
“What happened last night?”  
“Amelia accidentally hit me with her..,”  
“No, no I heard about all that,” Hamish interjected “What happened with Dan Smith?”  
“Nothing,”  
“Did he take you home?”  
“No, he helped me clean up my nose, we chatted and then he called me a taxi,”  
“Oh I see,”  
“Yeah,” 

Talking the night over with Hamish made everything with Dan seem less significant that I’d first thought. I’d considered him such a gentleman for helping me, but when I mulled it over again, it seemed the normal, appropriate response when someone is bleeding on the floor. Of course, he then made sure I was okay and we chatted for a while, but again was just a normal, helpful thing to do. I cringed, realising I’d romanticised the whole situation; the fun interview, the support, the chatting; it didn’t make me special. It didn’t mean that Dan necessarily liked me, or thought I that was interesting. He was just being a decent human being. 

Even the texts had started to lose their sparkle. Yes he’d texted several times, but did that really mean he liked me? I began to dissect every moment of the evening and my self-esteem began to slowly crumble away once more, leaving me in quite the slump. I pegged my childish excitement on my need for attention after my break-up and decided it was best to ignore any feelings I had for the man.

After saying goodbye to Hamish, I turned my phone on silent and got to work on the one thing that was always a constant; my work. Plugging my headphones into the laptop, I loaded up a Spotify playlist and began to type. I had decided that I would write a great article on the band, like the professional woman I was, have it published and then file it, along with any feelings I had for Dan Smith.

I slid on my headphones and pressed play, closing my eyes momentarily as the music hit my ears; Roger Daltrey’s wonderful voice filling me with determination.

_There are men high up there fishing_  
_Haven't seen quite enough of the world_  
_Ooh, I ain't seen a sign of my heroes_  
_And I'm still diving down for pearls_  
_Let me flow into the ocean_  
_Let me get back to the sea_  
_Let me be stormy and let me be calm_  
_Let the tide in, and set me free_

I let my lips curl into an empowering smile. Music was my passion and I wasn’t going to allow one attractive man to stop me from enjoying it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this chapter wasn't too confusing. It didn't come out quite the way I wanted, but I had to have the reader a little confused after everything that had happened. More to come soon.
> 
> Christian O'Connell presents the breakfast show on absolute radio (105.8 fm) and I listen to it every time I'm off work, so I thought i'd feature it :P
> 
> Also the song at the end is Drowned by the Who. It's great, check it out :)


	7. Cock-ups

Dan never did text back. I’d pretended I didn’t care, though of course, I checked my phone every now and again just in case, but no message came. Writing the article complicated things further as I had to relive the interview and wonderful time that I’d had and every word I typed brought Dan’s silly toothy grin and breathy laugh back into my mind. However, my notes on Bastille were detailed and the article practically wrote itself and for the first time ever, my first draft was accepted by the editor without revisions. 

It was Tuesday the 31st of January when the snow finally began to melt and London’s transport system awoke from its lengthy slumber. Despite this, I opted to walk to work that morning. I now knew the route to the offices like the back of my hand and had started to actually enjoy a brisk stroll across Waterloo Bridge. It was ten o’clock and I wasn’t in a rush, so I stopped halfway across and looked out over the Thames. The usually murky brown water glistened in the morning sunlight as it gently lapped against the old brick and I smiled to myself as I gazed at the skyline. It was days like those that I felt awfully lucky to live in central London. Pulling my woollen scarf taut around my neck as a barrier from the biting wind, I headed onwards, to Blackfriars.

New Sound’s modest offices sat above a sweet old pub called ‘The Counting House’ in Bank and as I passed, I waved through the thick glass panes at the friendly bartenders, who were already swamped with paying customers. How one could start the day with a large whiskey, I was sure I’d never know. 

I almost tripped up the slippery steps to the front door and had to steady myself on the wooden hand-rail. With my cold now finally non-existent, and my painful nose now healed, the last thing I needed was another injury. I swiped my card at the entryway and pushing open the decaying oak door, I was greeted by the familiar scent of fresh coffee and old newspapers. New Sound had been around since the late 70s and had never quite taken off as the original owner had intended, but we had published four hundred and ninety-eight issues of the magazine, and a copy of every single one hung on the the walls of the office. The editors were already planning a lavish party for the five hundredth issue and I was to interview Ray Davies from the Kinks for it; a very rare and incredibly exciting prospect for a relatively new writer and long-time fan of the band.

I headed straight for my desk and, whilst booting up my computer, I fumbled around in my satchel for my USB stick. Tracey, the temp had obviously been on a Costa run, as a fresh, frothy cappuccino, sat at my keyboard and I sipped it gingerly, the hot coffee burning my too eager tongue as I as plugged in the USB, finding my photography folder so as to choose the images for the article. I’d avoided looking at the photos I’d taken that fateful evening thus far, knowing that seeing those beautiful, all too familiar blue eyes would make my stomach ache, but the article was ready to go to print and today, unfortunately, I’d have to bite the bullet. 

The truth was, I was infatuated with Dan Smith. Or more, with the idea of him. I’d spent a few short hours with the man, but I just couldn’t keep him out of my mind. I reminded myself every day that he was a big star and that our meeting was just part of my work and his. He had to be interviewed, just as I had to interview. That was my job. That was his job. Any pleasure that either of us derived from it was purely luck and I needed to realise that I wasn’t his friend, or his…anything else. If I saw him again, we would most likely just smile and nod at each other and pass by like two strangers and it was probably for the best. Though his number was in my phone….and he, himself had put it there…

I shook my head, erasing the thought as though it were scribbled in dry wipe marker and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Gulping, I double clicked the folder and immediately my screen was flooded with pictures of Dan Smith. There were angsty photos and arty photos, photos that showed his flawless profile and silly ones of him posing with his stupid, bottle green ‘John Lennon’ sunglasses on. I laughed heartily. I couldn’t help myself. How could a man be so sexy and so goofy at the same time? Scanning through the images slowly, I selected two; one of him lying leisurely on the tacky velour couch, running a hand through his hair and a portrait image of him resting his head in his hands and smiling sweetly, obviously trying to stifle giggles. They were effortless and real and natural and I wasn’t sure if I was proud of myself for taking such good pictures, or vexed at him for being so beautiful. Either way, I dragged them to my desktop to be printed, humming contentedly. 

I dared one last peek at the photo album and scrolling to the bottom, I found the selfies that I’d almost forgotten he’d taken. I couldn’t help but chuckle once more at the silly expressions we made, remembering the joyous moment and warm feeling in my stomach; a mix of happiness and terrible booze. One particular photo also confirmed the height difference between the two of us. I stood at a tiny 5”1 and Dan towered over me, practically a giant. I allowed myself to imagine us holding hands for a moment, a grin appearing on my face as I felt the struggle of actually reaching his hand, my elbow hanging low, like a child holding their parent’s hand whilst crossing a busy road. I cackled at the thought, and let the last image in the album catch my attention. It showed the two of us, faces screwed up and tongues sticking out of our pouted lips. We looked so ridiculous and juvenile, but so happy. My heart hurt to look at it, but it was so perfect. I found myself dragging it to join the other two photos in the printing queue and for some reason, I allowed myself place it there; not wanting it to be published of course, but feeling the need to keep a copy, just because.

The large printer in the corner of the room revved into life as I downed the last of my coffee. It spat out the photos and I gathered up the pages of the proof of my article, having a last flick through to check for spacing errors. It all seemed in order and I held the pages tightly against my chest, ever so pleased and ecstatically proud of my own work. Grabbing the pictures from the printer as I passed, I slid the pages and the photographs into a folder, sealed it carefully and made my way to the editor’s office.

Miranda Hodges was the coolest person I’d ever worked for. It was her mother, Sylvia who’d founded the Magazine and she had taken a great interest in her mother’s pursuit, eventually taking over as editor in chief when Sylvia retired. She was in her early fourties and was the spitting image of Joan Jett with her shoulder length black hair and ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ attire. Miranda was also an impressive business woman, but still managed to be exceptionally kind and fun, attending all of the staff ‘do’s’ and majorly rocking out at the yearly Christmas karaoke. 

That morning, she was wearing her much coveted, tartan Vivienne Westwood blazer and her very thick spectacles sat on the bridge of her nose as she typed away at her computer; the only thing that hinted at her age. She smiled brightly when I approached her desk and I placed the folder of work into her open hands.  
“All done, pictures and all?”  
“Yep, all finished,”  
“Wonderful,” she congratulated, pulling open the shiny plastic folder to check my work. She didn’t look up again for quite some time and I made to leave her office, but she halted me, her voice commanding and yet gentle.  
“This could really launch your career, you know,”

I turned back and she was gazing at me, a hint of admiration in her eyes. 

“You’re a talented writer and this article could really get you noticed,” I shook my head softly.  
“I like working here, I’m not sure I’d get on that well at a large magazine,”  
“Nonsense,” she scolded “Never settle. Take a leaf out of my book. I was once very much like you,” Miranda’s sparkling green eyes filled with nostalgia as she spoke.  
“I was offered a position at Rolling stone, you know. I didn’t take it, instead I opted to help my mother with her publication. Don’t get me wrong, New Sound is like my child, but I do sometimes wish I’d taken the job. You are so young and full of promise, don’t settle at a place like this when there is so many more exciting opportunities out there for you,”  
“We’ll see,” I tittered, turning to leave once more.  
“Well, I will be personally sending this article to out to my contacts. Whether you like it or not!” Called Miranda, as I closed to the heavy door to her office.

I knew she was right, I shouldn’t settle at the magazine, but I wouldn’t say it to her face, not wishing to hurt her feelings. I loved my job, but it really was time to move on to bigger and better things. Mike had moved on, Claire had moved on and here I was, still treading water, in a job that was fun, but paid peanuts. I had a tiny flat in a very expensive area of London and was struggling to pay rent each month, so I ought to have been applying for jobs at larger publications in the hopes of earning some real cash.

The truth was, however, I was more like Dan smith that I cared to admit. I was terrified of failure and needed constant validation of my work. I knew Miranda liked my writing, and so I allowed myself to become too comfortable in my position, interviewing bands at tiny venues that no one had ever heard of; Bastille being the most famous band I’d interviewed by far. I should have been out there interviewing popular bands in swanky green rooms at The 02 and the Royal Albert Hall and writing for a magazine where my talent would be fully recognised and appreciated. But I wasn’t, all because of my own stupid self-doubt. 

Sighing, I made my way back out of the office. The article had been handed in and now I was freed up for an afternoon of binge-watching ‘Orange is the new black’ and eating Ben and Jerry’s in my pyjamas. What a cliché.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The next morning I woke up, rather later than I’d planned, to a horrible pain in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t the first time, I’d awoken to a Ben and Jerry’s hangover, but I promised myself then and there, that it would be the last. Rolling out of bed, I yawned and headed straight for the shower. I had a whole day all to myself before another gig to review in the evening and I had planned to actually get some chores done and finally exercise after what had seemed a long hibernation. 

After breakfast, I threw some clothes on and headed out, crossing an incredibly icy Westminster Bridge for a run in St James Park. The children were all in school and the freezing temperatures kept the tourists to a minimum, meaning the usually busy pathways were almost entirely empty and I could jog in peace. The brisk air was welcome on my exposed skin, with me working up a sweat almost as soon as I’d started running and disappointingly, I had to stop after five minutes or so; already feeling incredibly flushed and out of breath. 

Before my break-up with Mike, I’d been quite athletic, enjoying the odd run around the park and even belonging to a gym for some time. Back then, I could lap the entire part twice without stopping, but I’d really let myself go since, enjoying far too few jogs and far too many tubs of ice cream. 

Dispirited, I sat down on a wooden bench to catch my breath. Taking a sip from my practically frozen water bottle, it finally dawned on me how alone I felt. Claire used to be an occasional running companion, complaining most of the way around the park of course and ruining my diet by taking me for milkshakes afterwards, but at least she was there. She was always there. And so was Mike. We’d joined the gym together, planning to go at least once a week when he moved into my flat, but now he was gone too.

I’d never been one to have a big group of friends, at least, not since university and sure, I had Hamish and the other lovelies from work, but I missed having those two people whom I poured my heart out to. I could call Claire and I suppose I could call Mike too, but they couldn’t be here to hug it out with, or to take me for long island ice teas at our favourite cocktail bar.

I sighed, picking myself up and heading back towards the park gates; it was high time to stop being a sad sack and I decided to give up on the run for today and get myself a latte to cheer up. Zipping my oversized hoodie up to my neck, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. The February issue of New Sound was now on the shelves and I was expecting a text from Hamish to tell me what he thought of my article, but what I hadn’t expected, was a text from Dan.

“Just picked up a copy of New Sound, you wrote an amazing article! Love the picture you chose too, though you should have credited me for taking it. For that you owe me a beer. Dan”

I had palpitations, my heart beating so fast that I felt light-headed and had to steady myself on a low wall. I had finally resigned myself to the 99.9999% chance that I’d never hear from the man again and of course he had to go and ruin everything with a few simple words. 

_Damn, Daniel._

I allowed myself to smile as I read the text again, wondering which photo it was that he was referring to. As far as I was aware, I’d only submitted two photos; the one of him lying on the sofa, the one of him with that silly grin and, oh yes there was one more… _oh shit._

_Shit, shit, shit, shit shit!_

Now I was running; the extra ice cream weight dissolving away with this new burst of adrenaline. I ran as fast as I could, dodging pedestrians and lampposts and post-boxes, praying that I hadn’t cocked up as royally as my subconscious suggested. I wasn’t even entirely sure where I was going, but a newsagents appeared on the horizon and I quickened my pace once more. 

I pushed the door open dramatically, taking the cashier by surprise, and apologizing profusely, though barely able to breathe, I made my way to the magazine aisle. 

Four of five copies of the New Sound February issue sat on the third shelf down of the magazine rack and breathing heavily, I picked one up, flicking through it for my article. 

_Oh no._

My blood ran cold. There, on the glossy page in front of me, was the picture that Dan had taken of the two of us. The picture that I’d wanted to keep for myself. The picture that was never supposed to be printed. The damn picture that made my heart to soar was now a public image. I put the magazine back on the shelf and put my crimson cheeks in my hands. Oh boy, what a mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for an almost filler heavy chapter, but needed to draw it all out a bit. Lots of actual Dan in the next chapter!
> 
> Also 'The Counting House' is a real pub near Bank station if you're ever that way. Though I'm not aware there's any magazine offices above it!


	8. Bubbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving you all so long without a chapter. It was my birthday this weekend and I didn't have time to get one finished. This one is a little short, but Dan is officially back! More to come soon. Hope you like it!

So I was mortified after accidentally sending an incredibly unprofessional photo to be printed alongside my article, Hamish had been poking fun at me all day for it and now I had to find some way of replying to Dan’s out of the blue text message.

I called Miranda immediately, after discovering my mistake and thankfully she’d spotted the photo when she’d looked over my work. As it turned out, it had also, in fact, been her decision to include it in the issue.  
“Selfies are very current; you brought our dusty old publication into the 21st century,” she laughed, when I apologized over the phone “Besides, it reflected the tone of the article, perfectly. Good job ‘Y/N’!”

Great; so my editor loved the photo, Dan loved the photo, even Hamish said it was cute, so why didn’t I love it too? I popped the kettle on when I got back to my freezing flat and flicked through the issue of New Sound I’d purchased, taking another look at the photo as I flopped on the sofa. There was some truth to what Miranda had said. It was a good picture; natural, comical and personal; everything that a reader would want from a picture of their favourite singer, so why didn’t I want to share it? Why did I want it to stay secret? 

I laid back on the soft leather, lying the magazine flat against my stomach and playing absent-mindedly with a strand of hair. I couldn’t quite work it out, and groaned as I turned my attention to an even more confusing prospect; replying to Dan’s text.

He had, first and foremost, complimented my work, which was lovely and was an easy thing to reply to. I’d thank him for the praise and also thank him for contributing to the article. Simple. It was the last line that was putting me through so much turmoil.

_For that, you owe me a beer._

The anxious part of me had spent the last few days convincing the rest of my brain that Dan Smith had no interest in me. I’d mulled every aspect of the night of the concert over and over in my mind and concluded that one; he was just being a nice guy and two; I’d likely never hear from him again. But now, here I was with a text from him; a text that not only proved my anxious brain entirely wrong, but also brought with it the prospect of seeing him again.

I owed him a beer, apparently. Was that flirting? Did he want to take me out, or was it a friendly, ‘thank you’ beer? But he’d said I owed _him_ a beer, not the other way around, so was I to ask _him_ out? As a friend or on a date? I made a frustrated noise and got up to make my tea, taking my phone with me and staring hard at the message, as though it were about to disappear. 

I dropped a tea bag into the largest mug I owned and poured in the hot water, creasing my brow at the abundance of mixed messages that buzzed around in my brain like pesky flies. I was just scared. I did want to see Dan, desperately so and half of me wanted to leap at the opportunity to ask him out, but I was terrified of being hurt again. I’d given that bastard, Mike, the entirety of my fragile heart and he’d crushed it in the palm of his hand like a Rice Krispy. I snorted at the bad analogy as I removed the tea bag from the water and splashed milk in the mug, stirring the hot liquid to a nice light brown colour.

Silly analogies aside, I was still hurting from my break-up and the last thing I wanted to do was fall head over heels for a musician who I’d barely get to see. I knew my brain was overthinking things and moving way too fast and I didn’t trust my own judgement, so I thought about what spontaneous Claire would do.

“ASK HIM OUT!” Shouted ghost Claire, in the back of my mind, sending a welcome smile to my lips. I remembered back to a night out we’d had in Soho, just before she’d left. She’d had a crush on a bartender we always saw at our favourite club, ever since we’d started going there, months beforehand, and that night, she decided that it was high time she told him how she felt, even though she’d be jetting off to Australia in a week.

“Are you sure you should do this? You’re going away so soon, what if you develop feelings for him?” I’d asked; always the worried friend. Claire had simply laughed and downed a tequila shot a creepy admirer had bought her, for courage. She’d then looked me straight in the eyes and shouted “FUCK IT!” before running straight over to him at the bar. She’d gone home with him that night, so the patented, Claire ‘fuck it’ success rate was quite high.

I cackled at the memory and bit my lip. I was such an anxious person and it was no fun. It was time for me to be the ‘fuck it’ girl.

I leant on the kitchen counter and sipping my too hot tea; because I was a bad-ass now you see, I wrote out a message to Dan.

“Hi Dan. Thank you so much for you kind words and thank you for your input. It was such a fun evening that the article practically wrote itself. I actually hadn’t planned to include that photo, but I printed it accidentally and my editor loved it and put it in, but I can owe you a beer anyway. Are you free tomorrow night?”

I sent the message, my stomach buzzing with excitement and fear and felt victorious when I got a reply almost immediately.

“Sure, meet at Brew Dog Camden at 8?”

“Sure thing, Bastille Dan,”

“See you then, Rudolph”

The next evening, as expected. I was in a mad rush. I’d never been that confident about my appearance, but I had honestly never taken as long to get ready than I did for my date/non-date/god-knows-what with Dan Smith. What do you wear on a night out with a famous musician? Surely, Dan had dated beautiful women all around the world, so how could I possibly compare? Doubts and fears ran through my mind as I tried hard to make my messy hair look somewhat stylish and patted foundation on my face, to hide the stress-fuelled pimples that had erupted on my chin that morning. I took deep, deliberate breaths as I applied lipstick, taking a hard look at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, but I certainly wasn’t ugly and besides, if Dan truly was someone worth befriending, or dating (wishful thinking), he’d like me for more than just my physical appearance. 

Claire’s ‘Fuck it’ rule, coming to my aid once again, I threw on my favourite velvet dress, some jewellery and laced up my doc martins, giving myself a little salute in the mirror. I tied a thick black scarf around my neck and slipped into my winter coat, before grabbing my bag and heading out the door. I looked fine, I always looked fine and I just needed to calm the heck down. 

Of course, public transport refused to be my friend that evening. My bus was late and then my tube was late and arrived packed full of people. I gravitated towards a tiny square of free space in the quietest carriage and stood uncomfortably, holding tightly onto the overhead rail as I sweated nervously, desperate to come up with interesting topics to discuss over beer. I’d eaten before I came out, unsure whether or not we were having dinner and in my famous style, began to overthink the decision; worried that Dan would be expecting us to eat together. If I was sensible, I’d have texted him beforehand and asked the question, but I wasn’t sensible; I was an anxious wreck. I bit my lip and tried to concentrate on something else, anything else. 

By the time I arrived at Camden station, I’d read every advert in the train carriage and had calmed down a little from my shift of focus, but at soon as I got out of the stuffy tube station and out into the freezing cold air, my stomach was filled with butterflies once again.

It was only Thursday, but Camden’s streets were lined with people, celebrating the weekend a day early. However, when I entered the pub, it was almost entirely empty. Brewdog’s Camden branch was incredibly popular and one usually couldn’t move for people in the place, but tonight, everyone seemed to be avoiding it. There were only three tables with occupants and the entire right side of the pub was empty, bar one man sitting alone at a small table. 

“Miss?” I was approached by a bearded bartender, with very round spectacles who knocked me out of my trance.  
“Oh, hello,”  
“I’m afraid we’re all booked up this evening,”   
I furrowed my brow “What about the tables over there?” I said, pointing at the empty section.  
“My apologies, it’s been booked out for a special guest,”  
I was confused, it wasn’t clicking at all. Not until, that is, the man sat all on his own turned in his red, vinyl seat, his two beautiful blue eyes focusing on me. 

My mouth practically fell open as Dan Smith stood up from the table. Casual as ever, he was wearing skinny jeans and a white shirt with a picture of David Lynch on it. However, his usual hoodie had been replaced by a clean cut blue jean jacket that played off his gorgeous eyes. I was staring, but I let myself, as a wonderful warm smile found a home on his lips.   
“Don’t worry, Dave” he called to the bartender, beckoning me over to his table “She’s with me,” 

My feet obliged him and I practically floated over to his table. I was still confused. I understood now that Dan was the special guest, but hiring out an entire section of the pub for just he and I, seemed a little too big-headed for my liking. 

I approached Dan and we nodded at each other in greeting, sharing a smile. I wasn’t sure of etiquette in this situation; did I hug him? No, too friendly surely. Handshake? No, far too formal. A kiss on the cheek perhaps? No, oh god no, this isn’t the 50’s!

Standing on ceremony for far too long, Dan broke the awkwardness by pulling my chair out for me and we both sat, relieved, opposite each other.   
“Sorry I’m late,” I apologised, slipping out of my coat and hanging it on the back of my chair “Public transport was a nightmare,”  
“That’s okay,” he chirped, sliding a bottle of Dead Pony Club in front of me “I got you a beer. I remember you saying this one was your favourite?”   
Dan Smith was sat in front of me, smiling his goofy smile, but still looking every inch a model and offering me my favourite beer. The whole scenario was so bizarre. I was sure I’d never sat opposite such a good looking man in all of my life.

“Good memory, thank you!” I grinned, taking a welcome swig. I looked around at the empty tables and Dan could sense my discomfort.  
“I thought it’d be easier if I booked out a section. This place can get really busy,”  
“Yes, why did you do that?” I asked, tilting my head slightly “Wasn’t it expensive?”  
“Oh no, I come in here a lot, they let me have it for nothing. I do quite a lot of promotion for them you see,” He took a swig of his own tipple and then sighed contentedly “I just wanted to have a quiet night. I didn’t fancy being disturbed every two minutes,”

I still hadn’t cottoned on, I still honestly thought he was being an egotistical jerk. The big star wanted a quiet night and didn’t fancy sitting next to noisy plebeians. It all seemed a little unlike him, actually. 

On cue, a very, tall, skinny girl appeared behind me.   
“Hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she squeaked, her cheeks pink with embarrassment “But are you Dan Smith?”  
“Hi, yeah, yes I am,” replied Dan, enthusiastically. To my surprise, he got right up out of his chair and went over to the girl, who was obviously a fan. He signed her bottle of beer and chatted animatedly, even posing for a couple of pictures with her. The girl was ever so grateful and Dan was a complete gentlemen throughout, waving at her as she strolled back to her table, clutching her beer bottle against her chest. 

Dan sat back down with a great sigh, but grinned all the same.  
“See what I meant about a quiet night? Imagine what it’d be like if this place was full,” He chuckled, taking another sip of beer.

I shook my head to myself. I was an idiot. Dan had booked half the pub out so that he and I could sit together in peace, without him being approached by fans, left right and centre. I felt awful for thinking him pig-headed and greedy. In fact, I couldn’t stop smiling at him. He’d been so courteous and kind with the fan, and didn’t come across at all selfish or egotistical. It was quite the opposite. He’d gone out of his way to give the fan what she wanted, despite his obvious lack of energy. What a nice fellow. Though, I already knew that. 

Sinking the last of his beer, he shot me a wicked grin.  
“Round two?”  
“You’re on,” I smiled, downing the last drops of my own as he headed back to the bar.


	9. Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for a chapter, have been feeling a little un-inspired the last couple of weeks, but I'm going to try and be more regular. Here's some nice Dan to make up for it, things are starting to get exciting!

One could not find better company than Dan Smith. That evening, much like our previous meeting at the gig, we got on like a house on fire. He and I drank beer after lovely beer, snacked on tasty nibbles and quizzed each other on everything, from our favourite foods (Dan reminded me of his love for pizza) to our favourite spots in London. Eventually, all nervous butterflies dispersed, and were replaced by a warm, comfortable feeling in my stomach. 

“So come on,” he began, placing a bottle of Elvis Juice in front of me “You asked me about my favourite film before, but I never got to ask what yours was,” He sat back down on his vinyl seat and propped an elbow on the table, allowing his chin to rest lazily in his palm as he watched me intently.

“Don’t laugh,” I said, with a grimace.  
“Did I laugh, when you chose period dramas over horror movies?”  
“Yes, actually,”  
“Oh, well I promise I won’t this time!”

I sighed, taking a glug of the dark, malty, incredibly smoky beer in front of me before setting the bottle back down and revealing a truth which I was sure I’d be embarrassed about for at least the rest of the evening.  
“The Labyrinth,”  
“Really?”  
“Yes really! I love fantasy films and that one has so much sentimental value. I used to watch it practically every day as a kid,”  
“It is a classic,” He affirmed, “Jim Henson puppets were pretty great,”  
“I know, right! The best Star Wars films are the originals, purely for the Jim Henson puppets!”

 _Uh oh_ , I’d opened the geek door.

“So you’re a nerd in all things then, not just music?” he teased and I flushed bright red.  
“Are you telling me you’re not a nerd, Daniel?” I shot back, hoping he hadn’t noticed my embarrassment.  
“Eurgh, it’s weird when people call me Daniel!”  
“Sorry!”  
“And no, I’m not a nerd,” he replied, unconvincingly, hiding his wide grin with his beer bottle.  
“You watch Twin Peaks!”  
“…okay, yeah, you got me,”  
“You’re a huge nerd!”  
“We’re both huge nerds!”

And so we went on, chatting like old friends and for once, neither of us spoke about work. It was a surreal situation for me; a music journalist, to be sitting across from a musician and not be flooding them with questions about their music and albums and lifestyle. It occurred to me how odd it must have been for him too, to be sitting across from someone who wasn’t drawn to him by his star status. I wondered again how many friends Dan actually had, and how many nights he was able to spend being himself and relaxing. I was sure this was a rare occurrence as he seemed to drink it all in, probably not knowing when he’d next have a night all of his own. 

It was nearly one o’clock by the time that the bar had fully emptied and the staff began closing up for the night. They waited patiently for Dan and I to leave of our own accord, likely not wanting to force a major celebrity to leave, but Dan, ever the gentleman, tipped the bar staff handsomely and thanked every member, before we finally made our way out into the cold, almost deserted street. 

Letting the door close behind us, Dan and I stood awkwardly in the doorway. I’d had a truly lovely evening and I wasn’t exactly excited by the prospect of hopping on a train and leaving Dan behind again, but what was I supposed to do? We hadn’t flirted really, or had we? I’d been so caught up in conversation that I hadn’t even stopped to think about Dan’s intentions. My mind began running away with me again and all the while, Dan stood patiently opposite me and the gap in conversation became worryingly wide.

“Well,” I said, breaking the silence “I guess I’d better be going,”

I didn’t want to go, I didn’t have to go; my heart was practically praying for a reason to stay. 

Effortlessly, Dan flicked his jacket collar up around his neck, presumably to keep the biting wind from his exposed skin, but he looked ever so cool doing it; as though he were Kenickie in Grease. His eyes sought mine and he smiled that silly toothy smile that I’d become ever so accustomed to.  
“Must you?” he said, finally.  
“Well,” I began, my heart thudding in my ribcage.  
“I quite fancy a walk, if you want to join me?”  
“Sure,” I surrendered and my heart jumped for joy. 

I’d spent a lot of time in Camden as a teen, buying trinkets from the market and the surrounding boutiques and when I was old enough, ordering my first pint at one of its many pubs. I’d even shared my first kiss on the bridge over the Lock, but I couldn’t recall ever strolling around Camden Town at night in the winter months, favouring drinking outside when the sunlight seemed endless. Camden was a cool, arty, very bohemian place, but at night it was even more so, with clubs and small pubs open seemingly all hours and the streets filled with bright fairy lights and performers. You couldn’t actually venture into the market itself as all of the stalls were closed for the day, but you could weave around it, and so we did. I kept looking up at Dan anxiously, worried that he would be discovered by a group of crazy fans, but no one seemed to notice him. In fact, he and I were practically invisible and floated through the modest crowds without being hassled once.

Now, it really felt like a date. Dan and I had run out of light-hearted things to talk about and were now delving deeper, far deeper than I’d expected to that evening. However, it did give me an opportunity to ask the questions that had been burning my tongue for weeks.

“So how do you cope? With all the touring and stuff, I mean,” I asked, finally, as we stood on the bridge and watched our dim reflections ripple in the murky water.  
“Well, I love it,” he replied “It’s my life,”  
“Do you get much free time?”  
“I did, at the beginning.” he explained, ruffling his already messy hair “We really hadn’t expected Pompeii to become quite the hit it was. We were chuffed when we were finally able to produce an album and back then we were playing such intimate gigs, but when Pompeii charted, things just blew up,” he smiled, as if he were sharing a private joke with himself.  
“And then it was gig after gig,” he continued “We had our American tour and played round Europe and our booking agent is really great and we get to play everywhere, but it’s pretty exhausting. I love my music more than anything, but at the moment it feels like I just got married. Bastille is my wife and we’ve just had the wedding and it’s a whirlwind. I don’t have the time or the energy to do much other than perform at the moment,”

“When was the last time you really had time to yourself?” I asked and Dan considered the question for a moment, scratching his lightly stubbled chin.  
“Couple of weeks ago, I think. But it’s a day here and a day there. I haven’t had a full week to myself in about six months,”  
“Wow”  
“Yeah, wow,” he sighed

“What about seeing friends…girlfriends….or boyfriends?” This drew a breathy laugh from him and I had to smile, biting my lip, secretly pleased at being so daring.

“I don’t have that many friends these days” he said, with a hint of sadness “I mean, there’s people I can see if I’m home for Christmas or whatever and I have a roommate who’s not a band member and he’s great, but that’s about it. Most people don’t have time for a touring musician and I don’t really have time for them. As for girlfriends…” he shook his head and chuckled to himself “Let’s just say, I’m a bit of an amateur in relationships,”  
“Join the club,” I replied with a giggle. He smiled broadly, regarding me with curiosity in his eyes. I couldn’t help but return his gaze, my heart rising in my chest.

“Tonight’s been great,” he said softly and my heart climbed up yet another rung, feeling as though it was about the clamber right out of my mouth.  
“I’ve had a really nice time, too,” I replied, feeling my cheeks burning red once more.  
“Look, I’ve got a busy weekend ahead of me, couple of gigs and lots of interviews, but might you be free to meet up again next week?”  
My heart felt like it was going to explode with joy.  
“Sure!” I chirped, possibly a little too frantically. _Hold it together Y/N_  
“Think I’ve got a whole day to myself next Wednesday,”  
“Well let’s do something fun then, think of something you’d like to do that you don’t usually have time to. Text me and I’ll organise it,”  
“Really?” he asked, excitedly.  
“Of course,” 

I was then pulled into a comfortable, warm embrace. Dan grabbed me by the arm and brought his own arms up around my shoulders, pushing me gently into the soft material of his t-shirt. The sheepskin of his thick jacket tickled my cheeks and his body heat warmed the cold skin on my face. It had been several months since I’d been hugged, nay, cuddled like this and I hadn’t realised how much I’d missed this kind of contact. If it was possible, he made me feel even more tiny, the top of my head barely passing his rib-cage. Greedily, I allowed my head to rest gently against his chest and closed my eyes as I breathed in the scent of his earthy aftershave.

The contact didn’t last nearly long enough, and as soon as he let go, I craved more. As usual, Dan offered to call me a cab home, but this time I managed to turn him down without too much of a fight. Instead he walked me back to the station and I managed to sneak another quick hug before I had to run for the train.

“See you Wednesday then, text me!” I called as I turned towards the bustling station.  
“See you then, Rudolph!” he called back  
“Damn-it Daniel!” 

He made a disgusted noise at the name and I fell about laughing, struggling to stay on my feet as I ran towards the escalator.

Fuck me, I was falling fast.


	10. Crushes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really not happy with this chapter, but I was desperate to get something out for you guys, despite my writer's block, so I hope you don't hate it! The good stuff's on it's way, I promise

The next evening, the texts began. I’d had an incredibly long day at work gearing up for the magazine’s 500th issue party; spending a full ten hours in front of my computer and on the phone, with minimal toilet and snack breaks and by eight o’clock, I was utterly exhausted, emotionally and physically drained and very much in need of some cheering up. 

Just as I’d flopped down on the sofa with a very grey and sad-looking microwavable shepherd’s pie to (hopefully) appease my growling stomach, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Fridays were often gigging evenings for me, but after my packed day, I’d been let off interviewing The 1975 at Brixton Academy, which resulted in the intern, Tracey having her very first shot at a solo interview. She utterly adored The 1975 and I was made up for her, so when I retrieved my phone from my pocket, I’d expected the incoming message to be from her, gushing about how gorgeous the band members were. Instead, Dan Smith’s name popped up, triggering a now too familiar queasy sensation in my stomach.

I rarely allowed myself to have crushes, favouring being open and honest about feelings from the start, in a desperate attempt to save myself from heartbreak, if or when the love or lust was unrequited, but it felt different with Dan. He was out of my league for one and he was famous to boot; how on earth could I express my feelings to a god-like creature such as he. And so instead, I suffered silently with my crush. I couldn’t even look at a text from Dan without blushing bright red or feeling sick. The sound of his voice made me sweat profusely and act quite unlike my usual self and I should have hated it. I despised being out of control and yet…that exquisite ache in the very pit of my stomach, those butterflies I got when I spoke to him, the pure happiness his silly smile gave me seemed to be worth all the frustration and pain and anguish in the god damn world. 

Finally, I opened the text, slapping myself on the wrist for my childish schoolgirl behavior and was greeted by Dan Smith’s gorgeous face. He’d sent me a picture of himself in a silly over the top ‘model’ pose, adorned in what must have been a new ‘Wild World’ tour shirt. I giggled to myself, the dry, cynical side of me tutting profusely, and I scrolled down to read the caption.

_“Not quite a glamour model, but I don’t scrub up too bad eh? Look out for my mug in Mojo this week. How was your day?”_

He didn’t scrub up too bad?! I shook my head and snorted at his ridiculous modesty, but now what, I thought to myself, was I to send him a picture in response? Eyeballing my mismatched outfit, I sighed. I had planned on spending the evening indoors watching crappy TV, not messaging a hunky singer and so had slipped into my ugly, baggy pyjamas, removed my bra for the day and allowed my hair to free itself from my usual work coiffure. In short, in looked a mess. 

Spooning the now lukewarm soggy mash and mince into my mouth, I begin overthinking, as usual, but managing to keep my cool, I reasoned that Dan wouldn’t care what I replied with, as long as I actually responded and settled for a brief message instead.

_“You look great! Love the new tour shirts, can you get me one? Day was incredibly busy, 500th issue party is in a week so lots to do, chilling in my PJs now and eating a pretty mediocre dinner. Sure whatever you’re doing tonight is much more exciting. X’_

I nodded in appreciation of my reply, pleased with my daring kiss at the end and waited, very impatiently for him to respond. By the time I’d conquered the shepherd’s pie and was rummaging in the freezer for something more satisfying (in the form of ice cream), my phone buzzed again. 

_“Busy day for me too, fed up with the press tour now really. In the studio tonight finishing a new remix but would rather be in my pyjamas with you x”_

I screamed. Well, not out loud, but I screamed internally. Dan Smith…wanted to be in his pyjamas….with….ME! My heart was beating like a drum and I cursed him for opening up yet another void of unanswered questions, but I was beaming nonetheless.

 _“Do you rock an old fashioned plaid set? Top and bottoms? x”_ I texted back, cheekily.

 _“No, but I did get a full, blue and white striped set from my mum for Christmas. They’re warm and soft, but I look like Andy Pandy! X”_ He replied, a few moments later.

I howled with laughter at the thought of tall, skinny Dan Smith in blue and white striped pyjamas until big tears were rolling down my cheeks, meaning that my ugly pyjama and messy hair combo was topped off with a face of smudged makeup. I felt like the ultimate Bridget Jones, lying on my sofa with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s ‘Phish Food’, but I honestly didn’t care, not with Dan Smith of Bastille fame texting me about his nightwear. 

_“You’ve just earned yourself a nickname, Andy x”_

_“Whatever, Rudolph x”_

And so we went on like that the whole evening, texting back and forth as I watched inane TV shows and cuddled up the sofa. Talking to Dan, if only via silly text messages warmed my stomach and indeed my heart and I finally began to forget how cold and lonely my messy little flat had been since Mike had left. Dan Smith certainly seemed to be flirting with me, but even if he wasn’t and didn’t, nor would ever have any romantic intent towards me, I was incredibly grateful that he was in my life and I vowed that night to take things as they came and just enjoy having this contact with him, for however long it lasted.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, I awoke feeling very stiff and uncomfortable. When I opened my eyes, the ceiling and light fitting above me seemed unfamiliar and it was only when I reached for my squishy floral duvet, I realised that I wasn’t in my bed at all. I’d fallen asleep in a most un-ladylike angle on the sofa and as I sat up, an unfriendly cramp in my back greeted me. I cursed loudly as I rubbed the tender area; It wasn’t the first time I’d woken up on the sofa, but I promised myself and my sore back that it would certainly be the last. Remembering the previous evening, I checked my phone, wincing as the harsh screen light pierced my eyes and sighed when I saw that I had three unopened messages from Dan. It had been many years since I had fallen asleep texting a guy, and I smiled to myself in vague embarrassment. 

Before I had a chance to see what Dan had written, my phone began to ring. I answered the call quickly, without evening looking at the screen, pressing it to my ear purely to stop the loud ringing that hurt my ear drums.  
“Hello?” I said, groggily, rising from my uncomfortable make-shift bed.  
“G’day!” someone chirped, in a bad Australian accent.  
“Claire?!” I cried, my best friend’s sweet, jolly voice jolting me awake.  
“Actually, I go by Mrs Hemsworth now, I’ve already tracked down Thor and he’s asked me to marry him,”  
“Isn’t Chris Hemsworth already married?”  
“…whatever. Anyway you don’t sound that excited to hear from me, so I’ll go now. It’s not like its bedtime here or anything,”  
“Oh shut up, I miss you! How are you doing?” I giggled, a large grin plastering my grey and weary face as I made my way into the kitchen.

“Fine,”  
“Just fine?”  
“Oh its great here, all barbecues and kangaroos, now what’s going on in your life?” she pressed  
“No, I want all the details, what’s it like out there, are there bugs everywhere? Are the people nice?" I pleaded, leaning against the work surface and putting the kettle on.  
“Oh you don’t want to hear about all that boring stuff,”  
“Claire…,”  
“Okay, okay,” she caved “It’s wonderful here. It is hot, the men are gorgeous, I get to swim every day and the only real issues are the spiders and crocs. There’s no gossip though, everyone’s too nice! Now come on, I’ve been drama free for nearly a month. Please, for the love of god, tell me there’s some drama going on back in London?”

I bit my lip as I poured hot water for a mug of peppermint tea. I desperately wanted to tell her all about Dan Smith and that fateful night at Soho Theatre, but I had no idea how she’d react. She was the ‘fuck it’ queen of course, but that really only applied to her. We were the same age, but she often acted like my older sister; poo-pooing crushes and relationships that she felt had no legs, and what’s more, she was right ninety percent of the time. Perhaps that was what scared me most; that she’d pick apart my crush on Dan and burst my happy bubble, which seemed to be about the only thing keeping me going.

“Okay, who is he?” She sighed; my silence giving away more than I’d intended.  
“Erm…”  
“Okay, so it is a guy,” She continued. I closed my eyes tightly, but relented; I had to share my excitement and Claire was my best friend; surely she’d support me, no matter what/

“Right, so you know I took your place for the Bastille interview,”  
“Go on,”  
“Well to make a long story short…Dan Smith and I got on well and we’re kind of hanging out…and texting,” 

Over the course of half an hour, two cups of peppermint tea and a bowl of Weetos, I explained the whole convoluted Dan Smith situation to Claire. All the while, she listened intently and asked careful, relevant questions and when I’d spilled my guts about every tiny detail, she took a moment to reflect. 

There was a short pause as I began to wash up and then came a squeal of delight so loud, I had to move the phone away from my ear, nearly dropping into the washing up bowl.

“Girl, please, I’m a music journalist, I kind of need to be able to hear,”  
“Sorry!” she squeaked, excitedly “You and Dan Smith! I can’t believe it. I’m so jealous, bitch!”  
“Rude. Anyway, we’re not together. We’re not dating, we haven’t kissed. I’m not sure he even feels that way about me, we’re just hanging out,”  
“Certainly sounds like he’s into you,”  
“Eh, I don’t know,” I shrugged, clamping the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I scrubbed my breakfast bowl “He’s difficult to read,”  
“Well as long as you’re having fun together, that’s all that really matters. Don’t let yourself get hurt though, honey,”  
“I won’t”  
“Good, now let me tell you about this guy, Taylor…”

I smiled to myself as she began describing the abs of some Australian dude. Claire, my own relationship guru, thought Dan had feelings for me and she had a very promising success rate, maybe there was hope for me, yet. 

After Claire had finished telling me about her latest squeeze and the wonderful, hot weather in Oz, we said our goodbyes and made a pact to have a weekly Skype session, so that I could I could keep her up to date with my love life and she could give me helpful tips and advice. 

As I hung up, a small smile graced my lips. I had spent the last few weeks feeling more alone than ever, with Dan being the only major highlight and although Claire really was half the world away, our chat reminded me that she, and all my friends in fact, were in my own pocket; just a phone call away.

I set my phone down on the table as I began pondering the day’s chores, but then quickly remembered the unread text messages from Dan. 

_“It’s 3am and I’m still at the studio. My bed is calling to me. X”_ The first read.

 _“The lack of response tells me your bed was calling you too and you answered it. Sweet dreams, Rudolph x,”_ Was the second.

And the third, well the third made me blush and squeal, just like Claire had.

_“Oh, one last thing. I know we said arrange to do something on Wednesday, but Tuesday’s Valentine’s Day and my friend is having an ‘Anti-Valentine’s Day’ party in the evening. I know it’s not really in the spirit of the party, but want to come with me? As my date/non-date/companion/lady-friend/compadre? Can you tell I’m not good at this? But will you come? It’d be much more fun if you were there with me x”_

I held the phone to my heart, like a complete sap in an 80’s movie. I had but on question; what the hell was I going to wear?!


	11. Misunderstandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right I am so, so sorry for such a long hiatus. I'm in a show at the moment and Christmas was far more hectic than i'd expected, but here's a nice fluffy chapter for you all to celebrate the new year. Thank you all for your lovely comments and support, I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Already started writing the next one and I can guarantee that there is LOTS of Dan in that one too! Enjoy :)

The next few days went by so fast that I could barely keep track. There were errands to be run all across London, cakes to order, guests to invite, boxes of streamers and balloons to buy, bands to book and luckily, my busy schedule ensured I had barely a moment to think about the ‘Anti-Valentine’s Day’ party. Dan himself was also extremely busy with his work, meaning that the texts between us were now few and far between, allowing me to focus on the tasks at hand and leaving me no time to think about my silly crush. I’d started to feel more confident too, surprising myself with pangs of excitement for the party as opposed to nerves, but before I knew it, it was Tuesday night, the blasted butterflies had returned and I was sat, having a panic attack in a black cab.

The soft, leather seats were comfortably cold, gently cooling my flushed body as I tapped my nails impatiently on the steel fastenings of my handbag. It was a short drive from my flat to the party venue; a small pub called ‘The Lord Nelson’ and really I ought to have saved the cash and walked it, but I was so nervous, that I wasn’t sure my jelly legs would get me there in one piece. 

To make matters worse, I’d glanced at Dan’s Instagram account as I was getting ready that evening and noticed that he’d posted a picture with a very pretty girl. He’d had his arm around her, the two of them looking very cosy indeed, and in a single moment, all my self-confidence and excitement had been replaced by jealousy and fear. I cursed myself for being so fragile, applying a second layer of lipstick as the cab stopped at yet another red light. This mystery girl could have been anyone; a random fan, a friend, his damn cousin for all I knew, but my paranoid and obsessive side whispered that because she was pretty and female they must be romantically involved. I chewed a fingernail anxiously as we turned into a narrow backstreet, trying to push the thought from my wildly overcrowded mind.

I clocked the pub from about a hundred metres away and my heart began to thump as we pulled up outside. It was a sweet Victorian pub, with a very old fashioned sign and entry way, but as I stepped out of the taxi, I could see that the interior was that of a very modern craft ale bar. I paid and thanked the driver, before taking a quick breather. 

Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, slipping my cold hands into my fleece-lined coat pockets. Fuck it, I chanted under my breath, my new mantra coming to my aid once more, before gently breathing out through my lips in a light hiss. My heart slowed to a comfortable rhythm and I gritted my teeth as I approached the bouncer. My name was on the list, which meant that Dan had remembered I was coming at least and I attempted, semi-successfully, to swallow my paranoia as I stepped through the door. 

The cramped room was already too warm and I sighed in relief as I was offered a drink by a slightly too friendly male attendant.  
“It’s strong, be careful!” he shouted, over the buzz of music and chatter, placing what resembled a blue Slush-puppie into my hand. I was wary of neon drinks after that fateful night at Soho theatre, but the atmosphere was too sweaty and the ten year old child inside of me was too excited not to take a sip. Tangy raspberry liquid hit my tongue, more than satisfying my sweet tooth, but I could tell that they were going to be lethal, as I couldn’t taste a trace of alcohol. 

I sipped a little more carefully as I began to scan the room for familiar faces. I was quietly disappointed that I couldn’t spot Dan right away and so instead turned my attention to the décor for a moment. The whole room was decked out like a 1950’s prom. There were streamers and flags embossed with hearts plastered all over the room, an enormous glitter-ball hung in the centre and an old-school lighting rig, manned by a heavy-metaller roadie ensured the ball twinkled gloriously over the crowd. 

The design didn’t scream ‘anti-valentines’ to me and I was rather perplexed until I peered a little closer at the hearts on the walls. Whereas typical Valentines posters would be emblazoned with pink and red hearts, these were completely black and some of which were broken in two or stabbed with cartoon daggers. It was all rather sinister actually; even the large glass punch bowl on the side table was embellished with tiny skulls and over the speakers they were playing very angsty punk music. It all seemed rather odd to me, but the crowd didn’t seem at all perturbed by it, so I shrugged to myself and continued my search for Dan.

Wandering aimlessly, I found myself entirely lost in the sea of bodies. The room was small and full and though it was early, many of the party goers had already partaken in one too many alcoholic slushies and were dancing wildly, flailing their arms and stamping their feet to the sound of the Sex Pistols. I was quickly trapped in the centre of a large crowd, kept in place by waving limbs and at my tiny 5”1 height I began to drown. I felt faint, beads of sweat pooling on my forehead and I almost jumped out of my skin when I felt a large pair of hands grab my shoulder. I whirled round as the mysterious mitts began pulling me out of the crowd, the ocean of dancing drunks parting before me. 

I allowed my body to be hauled towards an opening and I sighed in relief as I felt fresh air hit my face. I emerged into a quiet corner of the room by an open window and I beamed when I saw that the pair of hands belonged to Will, Bastille’s bassist.

“My hero!” I laughed, leaning in towards him so he could hear me over the loud music.  
“Well I couldn’t just leave you to pass out, could I? Not after the bloody nose incident. Do you make a habit of getting yourself into trouble?”  
“I don’t mean to, but trouble always seems to find me!” I conceded with a smile. He nodded in response.  
“Have you seen Dan?” I asked, scanning at the small group of revellers he was standing with, trying to pick out his familiar messy mane.  
“Yeah, he’s over there with Gabrielle,” Will replied, pointing to another little pocket of space by the punch bowl. I turned to look and sure enough, there stood Dan Smith, in all his glory, talking to a pretty girl with long blonde hair. 

I gulped, my insides turning to mush as I took him in from across the room. It had seemed forever since I’d seen him in the flesh and I’d almost forgotten how achingly beautiful he was. His blue eyes smiled as he spoke to the girl and I found myself staring at him once again, wondering how someone could possibly look like that. 

On cue, Dan looked up; those prepossessing blue spheres piercing my own eyes and I almost gasped. He smiled broadly and waved, beckoning me towards him with a hand. It was as though there were an invisible thread between my body and the tips of his fingers for as he beckoned, I was pulled towards him, stomach first. 

I wasn’t walking, I was floating and everything was suddenly becoming so clear to me. I felt the gentle touch of his hand on my nose when it was bleeding and his warm, strong arms around me as he lifted my fragile form with ease into the adjoining room. I could see all the silly faces we made together, taking photos and drinking beer and laughing. I felt his hand brush my shoulder before I zoomed off in the cab and the firm, yet gentle embrace we shared before I ran off for my train. My heart smiled and confirmed the worst. This was no crush; I was head over heels, uncontrollably in love with Dan Smith. 

I gulped as I got closer, trying to hide my sudden realisation from the grinning man in front of me. I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around his neck, but I refrained; hoping that there would be a more opportune moment. I felt euphoric; like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I finally knew exactly how I felt and exactly what I had to do, but of course, someone had to throw a spanner in the works. This spanner, was very pretty, tall and blonde. The girl who Dan had been talking to had turned to face me and my stomach muscles tightened when I recognised her. It was the girl from the Instagram photo; from the silly picture that had made me rethink everything and she was beaming at me from Dan’s side, her white gold hair shining in the low party lights.  
“Y/N!” cried Dan, pulling me into his long arms. He hugged me tightly, my face pressed up against the soft jersey material of his signature grey hoodie. Usually his familiar scent was a comfort, but now it made my eyes prick with tears. I blinked them away in desperation as he released me, plastering a fake smile on my lips.  
“Hi Dan!” I chirped, as brightly as I could muster, trying my best not to stare daggers at the girl, who was now snuggling up far too close to Dan. He nudged her playfully before snaking an arm around her shoulders in a far-too-friendly fashion.  
“Y/N this is Gabrielle,” he said, smiling down at her.  
“Dan’s told me a lot about you!” said Gabrielle warmly, taking my hand in a friendly handshake. 

I felt sick. There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in her voice and she and Dan looked so cosy together. Why on earth would he invite me here if he was already dating someone else? Betrayal was something I was used to, but jealousy was still foreign to me and I brought the alcoholic slushie to my lips and sipped hard, draining all of the liquid in frustration, until there was nothing left but ice. Dan seemed oblivious to any hostility on my part and continued to chit-chat idly as I placed the empty cup on a nearby table. I could see his mouth moving and I knew he was addressing me, but I could hear nothing over the furious pounding of my heartbeat. 

“So,” I said after a few moments, the boozy Slush-Puppie giving me a much needed confidence boost. I’d obviously interrupted Dan mid-sentence and he looked at me quizzically as I continued, rudely, determined to find out what was going on  
“How long have you two been together?” I said, curtly.

Silence. 

There was a handful of awkward seconds as the two of them took in what I had just said and then they both burst out laughing, making the horrible sick feeling in my stomach rise up to my throat. 

Uh-oh, what had I done?

“Y/N, Gabrielle is our social media rep, she works for our record label,” 

_Oh, bollocks._

“Although he’s lovely, we aren’t romantically involved I’m afraid,” laughed Gabrielle, poking Dan playfully in the ribs.  
“This is her party,” sighed Dan, shaking his head “I really wanted to put the two of you in touch because she’s leaving us and her job’s up for grabs. I thought you’d be an ideal candidate,”

_Oh, fuckity fuck._

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing! You just looked a bit like a couple and I just thought…oh never mind,” I said, trying to shake the scarlet from my cheeks “It’s really lovely to meet you, Gabrielle, thank you so much for letting me come to your party. I’m sorry I’m such an imbecile,” I gritted my teeth and tried to laugh, though I felt as though I was slowly dying inside.

“No really, it’s fine,” cackled Gabrielle “Enjoy the party, I’d better find my actual boyfriend before rumours circulate. I’ll catch up with you two later!”

And with a wink, Gabrielle disappeared into the crowd and I was left, completely mortified, with Dan. I looked up at him sheepishly, but was pleased to find that he didn’t look angry. 

“Did you really think we were dating?” he asked loudly, leaning in so that I could hear him over the sound of ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ that had just begun playing loudly over the speakers.  
“Well, I…” I started, trying to think of some way to explain my silly paranoid moment but he stopped me, tugging gently at my sleeve and beckoning me to follow him. 

Dan kept hold of my sleeve as he pulled me through a large gaggle of dancing guests, but as they jiggled wildly, we were pushed apart and he was forced to let go. I lost him for a moment as a couple began violently making out right in front of me, but suddenly someone grabbed my hand and I turned as Dan laced his fingers with mine, pulling me safely from the rabble. I’d expected him to let go when we were free, but he kept our fingers tightly intertwined as he led me through a door and out into a back alleyway. 

The icy air was ever so welcome on my flushed face and I basked in it for a moment as Dan turned to face me. Slowly and almost reluctantly, he released my hand from his grasp and I slipped it straight into my coat pocket; his hand creating such warmth that the night air was bitingly cold without him. 

“What is it with us and escaping to back alleys?” I pointed out, chuckling.  
“What is it with you and getting yourself into uncomfortable and compromising situations,” he retorted with a snort, though his eyes were still full of vague concern.  
“I’m sorry, Dan, I don’t know why I asked,” I sighed, looking at my feet.  
“Don’t you think I’d have told you if I had a girlfriend?”  
“I know, it’s just that…” I trailed off, unsure of how to explain the real reason for my paranoia. He waited patiently for an excuse and I chanced a look at his face. His blue eyes were wide and comforting and his lips were pursed slightly, though they softened into a small smile as I gazed at him.  
“You know you can tell me anything, right?” He urged.

I was right on the edge; so close to spilling the beans about everything, but I was absolutely terrified. I couldn’t lose him now; I’d rather be his friend for life than ever tell him how I really felt and risk rejection. He sensed my reluctance and goose bumps pricked my skin as he reached into my pocket and prised a willing hand from it, enlacing his fingers with mine once again.  
“I’m not letting go until you tell me,” he said with a light chuckle, but his eyes told me he was dead serious.

__

‘I’ll never tell you, then’ I thought to myself.

I kept trying to break from his gaze, but it seemed impossible; those azure rings boring into me and keeping me focused on him and him alone. I sighed, I guess it was time he knew.

“My last boyfriend cheated on me,” I said, slowly, my heart thudding hard in my chest “he seemed like a nice guy like you, but then he ripped my heart out. The wound is deep and still healing and I’m finding it really hard to trust anyone new for fear of being hurt again. I don’t think I could take it,”

Dan nodded in understanding and didn’t interject. He knew that there was more that I wasn’t telling him and so he gave my hand a quick squeeze, but continued to listen, carefully. 

“You say such sweet things to me and I love being around you, but you’re famous and gorgeous to boot. You could choose to be friends with or date practically anyone in the world and yet you’re spending your free time with me and I just don’t really understand why,”

He contemplated this for a moment 

“You think I shouldn’t hang out with you because I’m famous? You think that I’m on some kind of higher plane because people around the world listen to my band and have pictures of me on their walls?” He said every word calmly, without a hint of mockery 

“Something like that,” I replied, meekly. It all sounded so silly when he spelled it out, but he’d hit the nail right on the head.

“Y/N, do you know what I liked about you most when we first met?” he asked, his lips curling into the silly smile that I knew and loved so well. I shook my head as he edged closer.

“When we spoke, in the interview and out of it, you treated me like a human being. You asked me questions about me and my life and not about some fantasized ideation of being in a famous band. Do you know how many people ask me about my sex life? When I attended the Brit awards, people honestly asked me how big my house was and which female musician or actress I was screwing. When I explained I lived in a flat in London with a mate and that I was still single, they were completely gobsmacked,” he shook his head in disgust  
“But you treated me as though I was anyone; I know you’d barely heard of Bastille before that interview, but even when you had, nothing changed. And the thing is, I AM a normal person. I want what anyone wants; a nice life and to surround myself with nice people. I like you and I hope that you like me…”  
“I do,” I interrupted, with a real, genuine smile tickling my lips.  
“Well that’s all that matters then, isn’t it?” he said with a small nod.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been acting so silly,” I cringed  
“It’s not silly, you’ve obviously been hurt badly and those kind of wounds can take a while to heal. All I can promise you is that I will be as truthful as I can with you and hopefully someday soon, you’ll be able to give me your full trust,”

I nearly burst into tears. No one had ever said anything so carefully thought out before. He was such a gentle and kind person and I still felt that he was too wonderful to spend a moment of his time with silly old me, but still I broke my hand free from his grip and threw my arms around his torso. 

“Thank you,” I said quietly, as I felt his arms wrap gently around me, enclosing me in a safe, well needed hug. 

“Right, come on, let’s go back in. I plucked up the courage to invite you as my date, so you could at least have the courtesy to dance stupidly to punk music with me,” he said, taking my hand once more, as I blushed and giggled. We approached the entryway, but as Dan reached to turn the handle, the door swung open and someone bowled out of it, slurring apologies and nearly knocking us both to the ground. The figure stumbled about for a moment and in an apparent drunken haze managed to trip on their own feet and hit the asphalt with a loud thud. It must have been awfully painful, but the person obviously hadn’t felt it in their boozy state as they burst out laughing, guffawing and rolling around on the cold hard ground. As they flopped onto their back, we could see that it was poor Woody, three sheets to the wind and looking like some kind of giant hairy baby, wiggling around on the ground.

“You alright Woody?” asked Dan, trying to keep composure, despite the fact he was shaking with laughter. Woody sat up and smiled broadly at the two of us, giving us a big thumbs up, before gurgling awfully and throwing up on the curb.

“Not going to lie, mate, you kind of ruined the mood,” sighed Dan, grimacing.


	12. Full-Blown Cackles

As we sat in the warm Taxi, I sighed contentedly to myself. It had certainly been an eventful evening and though nothing had gone quite the way I’d planned, Dan and I were snuggled up together in the back of a black cab, so somehow things had still turned out remarkably well. He had his arm around the back of my seat and when I cautiously slipped my hand into his, he squeezed my knuckle tightly and knotted our fingers together, just as he had before. It would have been an awfully romantic scene, were it not for Woody who was propped up in the seat next to us, slurring nonsense at the driver whilst he heaved into a doubled up plastic bag someone had handed us at the pub. 

We had managed to enjoy the party for a short while after Woody’s rude interruption, but unfortunately there had been no time for stupid punk dancing as we’d envisioned. Instead, for approximately twenty minutes, Dan, Will and I had practically poured water down poor Woody’s throat, but as it kept coming back up every 5 minutes, firstly in the men’s toilet and then, more worryingly, on the dance floor, right in the middle of a crowd of people, we had to leave and find some way of getting the bugger home. We first thought of putting him on a bus, but he could barely stand on his own, so Dan phoned his wife, Chrissy, to see if she could come and collect him. 

Will and I sat on a bench with Woody whilst Dan explained the situation, much to Chrissy’s amusement and he and I attempted to keep Woody upright as he shouted at passers-by that he was a very famous drummer. To our dismay, Dan returned, shaking his head. 

“Chrissy’s had a drink herself so she can’t drive. She said to put him in a taxi and she’ll pay at the other end,” He explained.

So we called a cab and we waited and waited for what seemed like an eternity for the blooming thing to arrive. When it finally turned the corner and stopped outside the pub, the driver got out and taking one look at Woody, flat out refused drive him without an escort. 

“I’ve just had the upholstery cleaned! I’m not having this fella’ covering the seats in puke!” He cried

Not wanting to ruin Will’s night, and potential opportunity to pull, Dan suggested that he and I go with Woody and then get a bus or something back to the pub once he was safely home.

Woody’s flat wasn’t too far a drive, but I savoured every moment cuddled up to Dan. He’d invited me as his date, told me he liked me and there we were, holding hands and resting against one another in the back of a cab. I’d got what I wanted, but with it came further questions; were we an item? Was I a fling? My heart thumped in my chest as the questions began pouring in, flooding my brain like a broken dam. I had no idea what would happen when the doors were open and we were out in the cold again, so I milked this opportunity; if this was the last contact we would ever had, I was going to make it last. Daringly, I laid my head against Dan’s chest, half expecting him to flinch or try and slide away, but he didn’t. Instead he placed his free hand gently on the side of my head and began stroking my hair with his long fingers, allowing them to get lost amongst the strands. He must’ve felt the goose bumps that appeared on my skin as he touched me, but he remained silent as I slowly melted into his chest. 

Getting Woody out of the taxi was easier said than done, but despite his heaving, and the alarmingly full plastic bag he was holding, we managed to leave the upholstery of the cab spotless. Chrissy apologized profusely as we passed the wobbly man through the threshold of their flat, holding his shoulder to keep him upright, but we just laughed.  
“Just happy he got home safe, Chris. Let us know how he’s doing in the morning,” Dan said kindly, as we walked back down the path. We waved goodbye and as Chrissy closed the door, Woody yelled “Love you, Dan!” and we both fell about laughing. 

So there we were once again; just Dan and I in the February chill. We stood for a moment outside Woody and Chrissy’s front gate and I longed to reach for Dan’s hand, but felt strangely sheepish about it outside of the mysterious seclusion and warmth of the taxi. 

“So,” I said, shoving my gloved hands into my pockets instead “Where to now? Shall we go back to the party?”

“Nah,” said Dan, with a yawn, stretching his long arms up towards the bright evening stars above us “Don’t really fancy it, now. They’ll all be pretty wasted by the time we get there,”

I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. That was the first party I’d been to in months and I’d barely been able to spend any time actually ‘partying’ with Dan at all. But more than that, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him. A sudden, uncomfortable ache had manifested itself in my stomach; a pain that was all too familiar and I faked a smile as I tried to come up with some excuse to remain with him and to not, once more, mooch off to my cold lonely flat by myself. I was bad with excuses and I was too nervous to invite him for drinks at mine, so I was stumped and tried but failed to hide the sad sigh that escaped my lips.

“Well, I’ll be on my way then, thanks for tonight Dan,” I said, plastering that too-sweet fake smile back on my lips “Despite everything, I had a really great time,”

Dan laughed heartily, slightly mockingly and I frowned. What was the meaning of this?

“You don’t think you’re just going to walk away from me again, do you?” he said with a genuine smile, extending a hand to me “I don’t want to go to the party, but that doesn’t mean I’m done hanging out with you,”

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. They jumbled around in my mouth and arranged themselves into incoherent sentences and so instead I said nothing. With a smile, a real one, slowly tickling the corners of my mouth, I allowed Dan to take my hand and we began strolling down the road together.

“So, where are we going?” I asked, after a while. I’d been so busy concentrating on the warmth of Dan’s palm against mine, that I’d not even noticed the unfamiliar neighborhood that now surrounded us.  
“Well,” he said “I only live round the corner really, so I thought we could pop there,”

_I was going to Dan’s place. Dan Smith’s place. Dan from Bastille’s place. Holy shit!_

My heart rose uncomfortably in my chest. It was nerve wracking enough walking hand in hand through the streets with him with the knowledge that he fancied me, but venturing into Dan’s house, sitting on Dan’s furniture and potentially even seeing Dan’s bedroom was a whole other ball game. 

“Okay,” I said, brightly, hoping the shakes that were now ghosting my shoulders had not reached the hand he was holding. Luckily he smiled broadly and didn’t seem to notice, or at least ignored the nerves that were now bouncing around in my stomach like ping pong balls.

Dan’s flat, from the outside, was nothing special. It was in an ordinary, grey tower block, in a regular grey London street, surrounded by simple houses with tiny gardens. At the time, it didn’t even occur to me that this could have been deliberate; the last thing shy Dan would want was a home that reflected his fame. I must’ve looked quite puzzled as we carefully ascended the steps into the lobby as Dan said with a laugh; “Don’t worry, it’s just as unremarkable inside,”

Boy, was he wrong. Dan’s flat was small and modestly decorated; all modern greys and navy blues and to be fair, it didn’t resemble much other than a typical student’s flat. However, when we’d crept past Ralph’s (his Flat-mate)’s bedroom, the cramped lounge was a musician’s paradise. 

It was messy, with sheet music and guitar tabs littering the coffee table and floor, but each corner of the room seemed to be occupied by a different instrument. There were two guitars, one electric, one acoustic, a modest drum kit and several smaller, separate drums huddled together by the TV set. A beautiful violin lay on the sofa, obviously recently played and right in the far corner by the window and by far the most remarkable of all, was a Yamaha keyboard that I recognised from the concert at Soho theatre. Dan’s Yamaha. Did he really shift that thing home after every performance?

I felt as though I’d stumbled upon a piece of history; Dan from Bastille’s secret home rehearsal studio and I honestly didn’t feel worthy to tread on the same carpet upon which, undoubtedly, many chart hits were born.

“Wow,” was all I could manage, as Dan careful cased up the violin to make some space on the sofa.

“Yeah, I know, sorry for the mess,” he said, misunderstanding, as he began organising sheet music that had been strewn on the floor.

“No it’s fine,” I replied “I feel a bit star-struck all of a sudden, actually,” 

Dan turned to me and laughed softly, showing his two rows of perfect teeth as he reached into the mini-fridge that was precariously balanced on a table by the window. He inspected the contents and settled upon two bottles of Brew Dog beer.

“You’re cute when you blush,” he teased, as he made his way back across the room. 

I wasn’t aware that I was blushing, but now I sure was, my cheeks burning brightly as I took in the unexpected compliment. He didn’t prod me further, ever the courteous gentleman and instead slid down onto the soft leather sofa and beckoned me to join him.

I obliged, as always and gratefully accepted the bottle of 5am Saint that he offered, after flicking it open haphazardly with his keys like a uni student. I took a swig as I turned to him, the heat of my cheeks now running uncomfortably through the rest of my body as I dared to look up into his delightful blue eyes. 

Never had I been so nervous. I was good with people. I was good with men! I wasn’t a shy person. But despite Dan being incredibly friendly and easy-going every time we met; gentle, kind and hesitant when it was required, whenever I was within five feet of him, my heart began to race. I’d dreamt of this moment for months and here I was finally, sat on Dan’s sofa with him, one of my favourite beers in my hand and I just wanted to bolt. 

Effortlessly, Dan slid his arm around my shoulders, bringing me towards him as he swigged his beer. 

“Now,” he said, licking his lips absent mindedly “You remember how you offered to plan a day for me tomorrow so that I could so something I usually don’t have time for?”

“I do,” I replied

“Well,” he continued, allowing his arm to curve a little further around my neck “Unfortunately, I have to work tomorrow, but I have you here with me tonight, so perhaps we could tick something off my to-do list right now…”

It felt like the blood had drained from my face. Was he really suggesting that we…did that? I looked up at him, wide-eyed. We hadn’t even kissed yet and already he was suggesting we…went to his bedroom. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t thought about that with him; I had needs too! But everything had been so well-paced and hesitant with Dan, so I was surprised that he was so forward with those kinds of desires. 

Dan looked down at me, a look of utter contentment on his face as he carefully, ever so slowly ran his thumb up the side of my neck, causing a pleasant shiver to resonate through my body.

“Sure,” I breathed, finally. I wanted him, of course I did. How could I say no?

“Great,” he replied, in a much chirpier fashion than one would expect to the acceptance of an offer for sex and my puzzled expression returned as he let me go and stood up, hurriedly fiddling with something behind the television opposite us. 

He slid something hard and plastic my way, across the nylon carpet and I furrowed my brow as I inspected it.

_A Game Cube controller?_

I looked up and sure enough, that ever-so familiar title screen appeared on the TV-set in front of me.

_‘Mario Kart: Double Dash!’_

I wanted the sofa to swallow me up as it all became embarrassingly clear. How was I so bad at reading signs and so good at jumping the gun?

“You…want to play Mario Kart?” 

“Yes! With you,” he said, excitedly “I rarely have time for things like this these days and I thought it would be fun,”

I bit my lip, hard. It was coming, speeding towards me like a Japanese bullet train and there was absolutely nothing I could do to stop it. I placed my beer bottle on the floor in readiness, not wanting to waste a single drop.

Suddenly, I burst out laughing, big ugly tears rolling down my cheeks as I held my stomach, completely unable to stop myself. I laid back on the sofa and completely let go; feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders as I cackled. I was stupid, he was adorable and the whole situation was agonizingly hilarious to me.

He approached me, sliding across the nylon carpet on his knees. There was a look of complete confusion on his face as he leaned over me which only added to the hysterics. I looked like a small child, lying on my back on the soft leather and kicking my feet as I laughed. 

“I’m sorry,” I wheezed, doing my best to stifle the giggles “I’m an idiot,”

“I know,” he said, that contented grin appearing on his lips as I propped myself up on a cushion, frowning at his teasing. 

“You’re mean,” I said, blushing a little when I realised how little distance there was between the two of us. He was kneeling between my legs, which dangled over the edge of the sofa and as I sat upright, our faces were awfully close, his lips mere inches from my own.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, softly.

I was expecting my heart to start racing, to go wobbly and faint and feel beads of sweat pool on my forehead. But no. No palpitations, no dizziness, no moisture; just an ache in the pit of my stomach that I needed to satisfy. I _was_ beautiful damn it and I was certainly good enough for the wonderful man who was on his knees in front of me (though still taller!) I’d been granted the most perfect, romantic moment and I was not going to let this pass me by.

Luckily, neither was Dan.

Placing a hand under my jaw, he brought me to him; parting his lips just enough that I fitted perfectly into a gloriously soft and gentle kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes I know I'm cruel for making you wait this long for a kiss and then I leave it on a cliffhanger, but the good stuff's on it's way ;)


	13. Tickles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my apology for taking ages to publish a new chapter, as usual. I've been in another show as well as preparing to leave my job, for a new one, so I've been very busy. The end of this chapter is a bit slapdash, so i might rewrite it at some point, but here you are anyway. Happy Easter everyone, thanks as always for all your wonderful comments; you really keep me going with this story! Enjoy some fluff!

I’d had such a bizarre evening. To start the proceedings, there was my unfortunate misunderstanding with Dan and the pretty blonde girl, then poor Woody’s regrettable dance floor puking and now I was not only sat in Dan Smith’s living room, mere metres away from his famous Yamaha keyboard, but Dan Smith himself had his ever so soft lips pressed against mine. It was an awful lot to take in.

I’d been so nervous about everything, overthinking every single gesture of his and torturing myself over potential rejection for weeks, nay months. But in a single moment, on a sticky, faux leather sofa, our lips finally met and all of those dreadful doubts and fears melted away into pure, effortless bliss. 

I closed my eyes, allowing the relief and joy to wash over me as Dan sought my lips in a second, even more tantalizingly gentle kiss, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my jawbone. I allowed my hands to explore a little too, my fingertips tracing his own, heavily defined jaw before bravely reaching up and allowing myself to get lost in the soft tangle that was his hair. I’d always longed to touch it and it was satisfyingly silky, if a little sticky with wax and to my delight he responded with a short, breathy moan as I ran my hand through the waves. 

Breaking our kiss for just a moment, he looked at me, earnestly, that familiar, worried glint in his eye.

“Is this…okay?” he asked, quietly, looking very much like a schoolboy after his very first kiss.

I couldn’t help but laugh; it all was becoming so clear to me. We’d spoken in the interview when we’d first met about Dan’s performance anxiety and later about his social anxiety and difficulty finding girlfriends and yet I still maintained that I was the one overthinking everything. I cast my mind back to when he asked me for the honest review of his performance at Soho theatre; not for the magazine, not to help sell his album or increase Bastille’s popularity. Just for him; just for his own peace of mind. Just to help him believe that he really was good at what he spent his life doing. 

I face palmed internally. Dan Smith, multi-award winning writer and performer, adored by women and men alike all over the globe was just like me. Anxiety ridden and silly.

He always seemed so comfortable and relaxed, but the look on his face at that moment told me that in truth, this was rarely the case. I imagined him, sitting on that very sofa, agonizing over replying to my texts, just as I had with him. I saw him pacing about his studio, wondering how on earth he could pluck up the courage to ask me to that party and now here he was, kneeling in front of me, asking for permission to kiss me. Perhaps he wasn’t such a gentleman after all; just a person who over thought everything he did.

He looked rather hurt at my sudden burst of laughter, so I gave him a peck on the cheek as I thought of a reasonable explanation.

“I’m sorry,” I explained “I don’t mean to laugh, it’s that… well, I only just realised how alike you and I are,”

His face softened into a small smile, the worry in his eyes slowly disappearing.

“The truth is,” I continued, pleased that I’d finally found some confidence “I’ve wanted to kiss you since we first met,” 

Dan’s face lit up at my words, a sweet, broad grin appearing on his face.

“You’re practically the nicest guy I’ve ever met and all I’ve wanted to do since we first met is spend time with you. I know your schedule’s busy and that you barely have any time for yourself, let alone me, but I like you, I really like you. And I’d like to be part of your crazy life, in whatever capacity I can be,”

“So…was that a yes to the kissing?” Joked Dan, prompting a fairly hard poke in the ribs from me.

“Ouch, hey!” he protested, grabbing both of my hands to put a stop to the prodding. He sighed, contentedly as he looked down at our intertwined fingers, giving my knuckles a quick squeeze before he spoke again.

“I like you a lot too, but you know that already,” 

When Dan smith smiled, his eyes smiled too.

“But I am crazy busy,” he went on “My life is absolutely mad at the moment. We’re touring soon and I’m gigging at least three times a week, if not more,” 

He shook his head sadly and I leaned in to kiss his cheek once more, eager to let him know that I understood.

“I want to see you,” he continued “I want to hang out with you and see if we can make this thing work, but you’d have to be prepared to be without me for quite long periods of time. The last girl I dated dumped me because she’d only get to see me once a month and it was completely fair and justified. It’s not right to force someone else to fit in with my random schedule, so I’d understand if it didn’t work for you,”

I nodded, biting my lip as I mulled it over. All of the relationships I’d been in had been quite full on. In the early days with Mike, we’d seen each other a couple of times a week, but we quickly decided that that wasn’t enough and ended up moving in together pretty soon after, so I wasn’t sure how I’d cope dating a man I’d barely see. But looking up at Dan, gazing into his beautiful sapphire eyes, I knew that I couldn’t possibly say no to this. I knew that if I walked away from him now, I’d torture myself for ever. The pain of not being able to see Dan every day compared to the pain of never being able to kiss him again seemed far less excruciating. Dan Smith was the sweetest torture of them all.

“We have to give it a try,” I exclaimed, finally, earning another grin from Dan.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he breathed, leaning in for another, more passionate kiss. 

This time he sought my lips with an air of desperation, clearly unable to hold back any longer. Opening his mouth slightly, Dan beckoned me to reciprocate, seeking out my tongue with his own and gently cupping my face with both of his large, soft hands. He kissed me as though I was about to disappear, as though this were our last day on earth and the last kiss we’d ever share and it set every nerve in my body alight.

I was panting by the time his lips released mine and he came to join me on the sofa, putting one of his long arms around my shoulders and pulling me into his chest.

“Now,” he said, picking up one of the Game cube controllers and setting it in my lap “Down to business,”

“Oh, you weren’t joking about Mario Kart,”

“I’d never joke about something so serious,”

“Alright then, prepare to get crushed!”

“You’re on Rudolph,”

And so we sat on the cheap leather sofa and drank beer and played Mario Kart and for the first time in forever, I felt completely at ease. The freedom of finally letting my hair down after making such an effort to impress him for weeks was pure bliss and to Dan’s dismay, I manage to win seven out of ten races.

“Cheat!” Dan exclaimed, as his Wario and Waluigi came in second place, yet again “You kept getting the golden mushroom,”

“Um, excuse you, it’s part of the game,” I said, smugly, enjoying my win a little too much “Besides, you kept getting blue shells every time I was ahead. If there’s a cheater here, it’s you!”

There was a worryingly mischievous glint in Dan’s eyes as he reached across the sofa, seeking out my ribs with his long fingers. I protested and wriggled away as he gently dug his nails into my flesh, attempting to tickle me and the uncomfortable sensation sent me into another fit of giggles as I slid further away from him on the sofa. Unfortunately, Dan was too quick for me, grabbing my leg and pulling me towards him as I flailed, failing miserably as I spluttered with laughter In one swift movement, he slid an arm under my legs, snaked the other around my back and lifted me up onto his lap as though I weighed nothing at all. 

Tucking a stray hair behind my ear, Dan pressed his lips against mine once more, allowing his hand to rest against the very sensitive skin of my neck. The muscles in my stomach were still tight from laughing and I was aware that I was smiling against his mouth, unable to stop giggling, even now. Dan however, was not perturbed by this and in fact, it only seemed to spur him on further, his hand getting lost in my hair as he sought my lips, pressing his eager tongue against mine.

He broke away for a moment at the creak of the living room door, as a very grumpy, tired looking head popped around it.

The head, I assumed, belonged to Dan’s roommate Ralph and he looked half asleep, large bags under his blue eyes. As the opened the door a crack more, it revealed that the body it was attached to was clad in a very large, shocking pink dressing down.

“Dan, do you even know what time it is?” he growled

“Sorry Ralph, we’ll keep it down,” apologised Dan

“Please do,” Ralph mumbled, grumpily “And next time you wake me up at 3am, please be having sex or something like a normal roommate. You don’t take a girl out to just end up back at your house playing Mario Kart,” 

“Duly noted,” Dan chuckled as Ralph turned to leave, slamming the door behind him. 

Dan and I had to muffle our laughter with our hands as we heard him thud back down the corridor.

“He’s wrong you know,” I said, pressing my lips against Dan’s neck, once we’d calmed down a little. “I love Mario kart,”

“Well it’s a good thing I found you then,” he said, tenderly, thumbing my bottom lip ever so gently before planting another soft kiss against it. 

Sighing contentedly, I looked at my phone and I was shocked to find that Ralph had been correct as the clock on my screen read: 3:25. It had been such a strange evening that I’d lost all concept of time and biting my lip, I was reminded of all the tasks that would need completing the next day.

“I don’t want to,” I sighed, more sadly “But I’m going to have to get going. We’re drawing close to our 500th issue launch and there’s so much still to be done tomorrow,”

“I understand,” said Dan, planting another soft kiss on my cheek, “Let me call you a cab,”

Dan reached for his phone, but I stopped him.

“That’s okay, honestly, I’ll get a bus or something. I’m not too far from here,” I slid off his lap, to begin gathering my things, but it was Dan’s turn to stop me. His arms wound themselves around my waist and he tugged me gently, beckoning me back down to sit on his lap. I obliged, with a giggle as Dan rested his chin on my shoulder.

“It’s 3am, I’m not letting you wander home by yourself,”

“I’m a big girl, I’ll be fine,”

“I don’t doubt that, but I’m still getting you a cab,”

“Dan…” I protested

“Y/N,” he soothed, running his hand through my hair gently and sending happy tingles though my torso “It’s my job to worry about you. If you’re going to be mine, you’re going to have to let me worry a little,”

I nearly squealed at his words. The feminist in me was mad at him referring to me as something he could own, but at that moment my heart didn’t care. I was Dan’s. I wanted to belong to Dan and I wanted him to be mine too.

“Okay,” I sighed, and he squeezed my waist a little, pressing his lips against my ear in a way that tickled and forced me into laughter once again. 

So I let Dan call me a cab and then we sat and cuddled whilst we waited for it to arrive. I couldn’t bear to consider how lonely my little flat would be after tonight, and so I tried to push the thought from my mind, instead milking the time I was able to spend with Dan. 

“You should apply for that job you know,” said Dan as I found myself playing with his hair once more. It really was so silky soft that I couldn’t help but run my hands through it. Luckily, Dan didn’t seem to mind at all, but I stopped in my tracks when he spoke.

“What job?” I asked, looking at him, quizzically. 

“Gabrielle’s job, the social media rep position,” he replied, looking at me like I was the crazy one.

I wracked my brains, trying to work out what I’d missed. I couldn’t remember a Gabrielle, nor any word about a job and I thought back through all the conversations I’d had that evening, sifting through each section of our time at the party until it finally hit me. The blonde girl! My embarrassing assumption that I’d tried to push from my mind; hadn’t Dan mentioned something about a job…

“You mean the blonde girl from the party? God I was so mortified, I can’t even remember what was said now,”

“Yeah, well Gabrielle was Bastille’s social media rep,” explained Dan “She’s worked with us for 3 years but is now sadly moving to a new label,” 

“Right,” 

“She basically ran all of our social media; our Twitter, our Facebook, she helped me take photos for our Instagram and filmed us on tour. She even wrote articles about us and organised our website,”

“Dan, I’m a writer for a small time music magazine, I’m not sure I have the relevant experience for something like that,” I conceded. It sounded like a great opportunity, but social media and website design weren’t exactly in my skill set.

“Just hear me out,” he continued “You’re so creative and the team were completely in love with that article you wrote about us. You’d be trained in all the technical stuff, but you have the kind of flair that they’re looking for,”

Dan was looking at me more seriously than he ever had before; his eyes alight with inspiration and I could barely believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. I wasn’t sure anyone had as much faith in me or respect for me as he did and it was all rather moving.

“The money is good and the experience you’d get would be…”

”And I’d get to go on tour with you,” I interrupted.

Dan smiled, gently stroking my cheek.

“Yes, yes you would,”

I bit my lip. Right then that seemed like the best proposition ever; to travel around the world with Dan and Bastille and not only get paid, but be able to see Dan every day, to not spend months on end without him. It all sounded wonderful, but we’d only just expressed our feelings for one another, wasn’t it a little too soon for that? Thankfully, Dan read my mind.

“I know it might be a little too fast, but think about it, okay? The job hasn’t even been advertised yet and who knows, by the time it is, you might already be sick of me, but if we are serious about this, it would make our lives a little easier. And more than that, it could help you finally get your foot in the door, Job-wise,” 

I looked at him, seriously, but my lips couldn’t resist curling into a smile. How could someone be so kind and supportive as well as intelligent and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous? It was almost sickening.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied

“That’s my girl,” he beamed, pulling me into another irresistibly soft kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic i've ever posted, so constructive criticism would be much appreciated. Also a complete WIP, so I will be amending and adding to it constantly :)


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